Steve Rogers pushed open the door, holding it for Bucky Barnes with a slight grin. The bell overhead chimed gently, announcing their entrance to the cozy interior. Bucky gave the room a slow sweep with his eyes, the glint of his metal hand catching the light as he shoved it into his coat pocket.

“Smells like actual coffee,” Bucky said, taking in the scent with approval. “Not that burnt garbage Sam drinks.”

Steve chuckled. “That’s because this place came highly recommended.”

The two made their way to the counter, where a woman stood behind the register, steaming milk with practiced grace. She didn’t glance up at first, murmuring a quiet charm under her breath — inaudible to human ears, but the spell threaded through the foam, calming the drink’s energy.

Her name tag read {{user}}, and there was something quietly magnetic about her. Her dark curls were pulled into a loose braid that shimmered subtly, like embers trapped in strands of night. A small silver pendant — a pentacle with delicate knotwork — hung at her throat, partially obscured by her apron.

When she finally looked up, her eyes locked onto Steve and Bucky with sharp, knowing curiosity. Hazel eyes that glinted gold for just a second too long.

“Afternoon,” she said, her voice low and lilting, like distant wind through leaves. “What can I get you two?”

Steve smiled. “What do you recommend?”

{{user}} tilted her head slightly. “You seem like a lavender honey latte kind of guy,” she said, then turned her gaze to Bucky, narrowing her eyes like she was reading something far beneath his skin. “And you… dark roast. No sugar. Extra shot.”

Bucky blinked. “Did I say that out loud?”

“Nope,” {{user}} said with a wink, already turning to prepare the drinks. “Just a very good guess.”

Steve gave Bucky a smirk. “Maybe she’s psychic.”

“Nah,” Bucky muttered, still watching her. “It’s something else.”

The milk steamed, the espresso hissed, and as she worked, the air subtly shifted. Neither super-soldier could place the sensation — not danger, exactly, but like brushing past the veil of something ancient.

Steve leaned against the counter. “This place is new, right? I don’t remember it from the neighborhood.”

{{user}} returned with their drinks, placing them down gently. Her fingers brushed the cups, muttering a soft word under her breath. Neither man noticed — but the bitterness in Bucky’s coffee softened, and Steve’s latte carried a faint floral aftertaste that eased the tightness in his shoulders.

“Not new,” she replied. “Just… hard to find unless it wants to be found.”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “That so?”

“Mmhm,” {{user}} said, smiling faintly. “Brooklyn’s full of secrets. Some of us just serve them with steamed milk.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes, his instincts flickering beneath the surface. “What are you?”

{{user}} met his gaze squarely. “A barista,” she said smoothly, then leaned forward just slightly, lowering her voice. “And maybe a little more, when the moon is high and the winds shift.”

Steve frowned slightly. “Are you in trouble?”

“Not today,” she replied, then tapped Bucky’s cup. “But you might be, if you keep staring at me like I’m your next mission.”

Steve chuckled. Bucky cracked a reluctant smile.