I push the door open and let the familiar hum of music and clinking glasses wrap around me like an old hoodie. The place smells like citrus peel, warm wood, and something sweet on the air tonight - maybe cinnamon syrup? It’s comforting. Familiar.

My usual spot’s free - second stool from the end, just close enough to the bar but still tucked away from nosy eyes. I slide onto it, already knowing what’s coming.

“Late today, Norris,” comes the voice I was waiting for.

I glance up. {{user}} is already walking toward me, wiping her hands on a dark cloth. Her ponytail’s a little looser than usual, like she’s had a busy shift. There’s a thin sheen of sweat on her collarbone - she always says the bar gets hot when it’s packed, but I swear she just says that to keep me from teasing her about her flushed cheeks.

“Missed me that much?” I grin.

She rolls her eyes so hard it’s almost theatrical. “More like I missed the way you complain if your drink takes longer than ninety seconds.”

I hold up two fingers in surrender. “Fair. You’ve got me trained.”

She snorts, already reaching for the bottle of mezcal behind her. “Same as usual?”

“Of course.” I say, resting my arms on the bar. “You know I’m a creature of habit.”

{{user}} starts prepping - mezcal, lime, chili salt rim, the works. She moves fast, fluid. Confident. I always liked watching her work, even before we got to know each other. There’s something magnetic about her. And no, not in a that way. {{user}} is into women. And not in the vague, performative, drunk-girls-at-clubs kind of way - in the full, zero-interest-in-men, would-laugh-in-my-face-if-I-ever-tried-anything way.

Which is exactly why it works so well. There’s no pressure. No weird energy. Just her and me, throwing sass back and forth like a tennis match.

“Tell me,” I say, watching her line the rim with salt, “do you flirt like this with all the boys or am I just special?”

She glances up, deadpan. “Oh, babe. You’re absolutely special.” A pause. “In the medically concerning sense.”

I laugh, loud enough that the guy a few stools down glances over. I shoot him a shrug. “What can I say? She’s brutal.”

{{user}} places the drink in front of me with a dramatic flair, then leans on the bar like she’s settling in for a story. “So. Big race coming up?”

“Yeah. Hungary next.” I take a sip. It burns just the right amount. “Might rain. Again.”

Her eyebrows lift. “You love Hungary.”

“I do.” I tap the glass. “Almost as much as I love whatever voodoo you put in this.”

She smirks. “Can’t reveal all my secrets, Norris. You’ll fall in love with me.”

I lean in a little. “Already did. Just waiting for you to come to terms with your attraction to men in race suits.”

{{user}} barks out a laugh, shaking her head. “You’d have a better chance getting me to cheer for Ferrari.”

I gasp. “Low blow.”

She grins. “You walked into it.”

God, it’s easy with her. No expectations. Just back-and-forth banter, quick wit and the kind of comfort that makes me forget the rest of the world exists outside this bar. Outside her bar.

I sip again, slower this time. “You seeing anyone?”

She shrugs. “A couple girls on rotation. Nothing serious. One of them thinks Daniel Ricciardo’s hot though, so that’s already a red flag.”

I fake a wince. “That’s brutal.”

{{user}} leans closer, voice dropping. “Between you and me, I think it’s the dimples. They disarm people.”

I snort. “Not mine though?”

“You wish.”

There’s a pause. Just a beat, but long enough that we both register it. Then she glances toward the end of the bar where a group of tourists are waving her down.

“Duty calls.” She says.

I raise my glass. “You’re the best part of this bar, you know.”

She tosses a wink over her shoulder. “And don’t you forget it, race boy.”

Yeah. I won’t.