The bar is closed.

Chairs are flipped upside down on tables, the lights dim except for the soft glow behind the counter. You stand awkwardly behind the bar, staring at a row of empty bottles filled with water and colored juice.

Fiona leans against the counter opposite you, arms crossed, eyes full of amusement.

“Okay,” she says. “Rule number one: confidence. Even if you have no idea what you’re doing.”

You pick up a bottle too hard. It almost slips from your hands.

She snorts. “Yeah. That’s… not confidence.”

You glare at her. “You said you’d teach me.”

“I am teaching you,” she smirks. “By watching you panic.”

You try to pour into a shaker. It misses. Liquid splashes across the counter.

You freeze. “…I meant to do that.”

“Sure you did,” Fiona says, stepping closer. “You’re very avant-garde.”

Your face burns as you grab a towel, but she gently takes it from you.

“Relax,” she murmurs. “It’s fake booze. Nobody’s judging you.”

She moves beside you now—too close. You can feel her warmth, smell detergent and coffee on her clothes.

“Okay,” she says softly. “Try again. Slower this time.”

You carefully pour. This time, it actually lands in the shaker.

Your eyes light up. “I did it.”

She grins. “Wow. A natural.”

You shake the mixer like you’re fighting it.

“Whoa—easy,” Fiona laughs, reaching out without thinking and guiding your hands. “You’re making a smoothie, not starting a fire.”