He doesn’t fall for chaos. He’s precision. Control. Iceman.

And you? You’re all heat and hazard lights. First day at Top Gun, you nearly clipped his wing in a turn so tight it left your C.O. screaming and your blood thrumming.

He hated you for that. He admired you for it more.

You fly like fire. Fast, instinctive, untamed. He flies like ice. Sharp, calculated, perfect. And yet… you move the same in the sky. Every maneuver you mirror, every dogfight you dance—it’s like the two of you were built from the same blueprints with opposite wiring.

“You’re reckless,” he told you once, jaw tight, eyes hotter than his nickname. “You’re boring,” you fired back, grinning in the locker room. Then one day you flew a perfect pair. No words. Just instinct. No arguments. Just altitude. And when you landed, he didn’t bark a critique—he pulled off his helmet, looked at you, and said quietly, “We make one hell of a storm.”

Now the edges between love and rivalry blur with every flight. And every time he calls you by your callsign, it sounds less like a warning… and more like a promise.