“And how can we help you?” the redhead asks, looking beautifully bored.
“Well,” Steve straightens his shoulders, clutching his sketchbook to his chest like a shield. “I’d like to sketch some of your dancers, if that’d be all right. I’d reimburse them for their time and–”
“Barnes!” the woman calls out, and one of the dancers at the barre behind her turns. “We got another Degas.”
This prompts the other dancers to start laughing, a man in the back shouting “Get it, Bucky!”
“Barnes” (or maybe “Bucky”? Steve’s confused), walks up to Steve, looks him up and down and smiles, nice and warm. “Can I help you?” he asks.
A thousand images flicker across Steve’s mind, ranging from sketching this boy to taking him back to his tiny, filthy apartment to getting down on one knee and just flat-out proposing.
“Yeah,” Steve says, “I think you can.”