Sam’s jaw tightens. He’s standing across from Bucky, arms crossed, a half-empty beer bottle dangling from one hand. Bucky hasn’t even looked up from the book he’s pretending to read—some worn paperback with a creased spine, held loosely in his vibranium hand.

Bucky’s eyes narrow. A muscle ticks in his jaw. He doesn’t move.

Peter stifles a laugh. Yelena’s grinning. Even Steve has lowered his book, a small frown of concern creasing his brow. Natasha’s watching the exchange with the careful stillness of someone who knows exactly where this is heading.

Sam’s already moving. Quick, fluid—he dips past Bucky’s reach and snatches the phone from the armrest where Bucky had set it down. Bucky’s up in an instant, chair scraping against the floor, but Sam’s already backing away, thumb swiping across the screen.

The room goes still. The music thrums on, oblivious. Sam’s staring at the phone like it just bit him. Then slowly, very slowly, he turns the screen toward the rest of them.

Silence.