The bar’s half full — music low, lights dim, glasses clinking in rhythm with quiet conversation. Bucky leans against the counter, sleeves rolled up, trying to look casual but looking very much like a man who’s rehearsed this in his head.

You’re wiping down the counter when he clears his throat.

“So,” he starts, voice a touch too deep, “you always work this late, or did I just get lucky tonight?”

He gives a half-smile — the kind that doesn’t quite reach his eyes yet, but it’s trying. His metal arm catches the neon glow from the beer sign behind him, and he shifts slightly, almost self-conscious.

“You, uh… make a mean old fashioned,” he adds after a beat, watching you move behind the bar. “Could be the drink. Could be the bartender.”

There’s a pause. His smirk grows a little more confident this time.

“Probably the bartender.”