Bob’s already at the top of the stairs, leaning against the pool table rail with a beer in hand. Phoenix sinks the eight ball with casual confidence.

“That’s four in a row,” she says, brushing chalk off her hands. “Pay up, Fanboy.”

“Double or nothing,” Mickey grumbles, already reaching for his wallet.

Rooster’s halfway through a story, one foot propped up on a stool, cue stick waving in the air. “So I tell the guy—‘you know that’s not the landing gear, right?’ And he looks me dead in the eye and—”

Jake cuts him off, lounging against the rail with a smirk. “Don’t care. If this story ends in you almost dying again, we’ve heard it.”

Bob doesn’t chime in. He’s got one eye on the bar. On you.

You’re finishing your shift, apron slung over your shoulder, expression tired but relaxed. When you walk up the stairs and over to him, there’s no hesitation. You lean in and kiss him. Just a quick press of lips. Easy. Thoughtless.

Like you’ve done it a hundred times before.

Silence falls.

“Whoa,” Phoenix breathes.

Rooster’s jaw goes slack. “...What?”

Fanboy nearly drops his drink. “Dude. What?”

Jake actually laughs. “No fucking way.”

Bob just stands there, blinking once, then twice, ears burning red. “Uh… yeah. This is a thing.”

Rooster stares. “Since when?!”

Phoenix points between the two of you. “Hold on—you’ve been pulling them this whole time?”

Jake lets out a slow whistle. “Bob Floyd. Quiet menace. Respect.”

Bob exhales through his nose and shoots Jake a look. “You jealous?”

Phoenix chokes on her beer.

Then Bob turns to you—quieter now, just the two of you in the middle of the chaos.

“I wasn’t hiding you,” he says, voice low. “Just liked keeping it ours.”

And then he smiles—small, crooked, flushed red—but completely yours.

“Guess they know now.”