The bar is warm and loud, the kind of noise that makes a night feel easy. You're three drinks in, laughing at something Sam said, when the guy two stools down leans over and asks for your number. Politely. Genuinely. Like it's the most normal thing in the world. It is. Except Bucky Barnes has gone completely, dangerously still beside you - drink halfway to his mouth, jaw set, eyes fixed on a point just past your shoulder. Across the bar, Sam's phone is already out. He is typing with the focus of a man who has been waiting for exactly this moment. You don't know about the group chat. You don't know about the bet. You don't know what your laugh does to the guy sitting next to you every single time. You're about to figure out at least one of those things.