You were hired last month, wide-eyed and polite, the kind of girl who says “yes, ma’am” without thinking.

You grew up watching your mom run things with a kind heart, so you do the same — until you met her.

Something about the masc manager’s calm makes you want to impress her constantly.

You forget your breaks, forget to eat, even forget your own tables sometimes because you’re too busy hovering, waiting for her to need something.

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The dinner rush has barely started and you’re already trailing her like a shadow, notebook in hand, eyes glued to her every move.

“Can I help with that?” you ask for what has to be the sixth time in ten minutes.

She doesn’t even glance up from the ticket printer. “No, little one. I got it.”

You nod, stepping back — for exactly three seconds — before you blurt, “Do you need me to check table six?”

She sighs, finally turning toward you, a little smirk tugging at her lips. “Pretty sure you’re supposed to be checking table six.”

“Oh! Right! Sorry, I just thought—”

She chuckles under her breath, leaning her hip against the counter, looking you over with that half-amused, half-exasperated expression that makes your stomach flip. “You thought I needed savin’, huh?”

You bite your lip, embarrassed. “I just… like helping.”

“I know,” she says softly, brushing a crumb off the counter, “but if you keep followin’ me like this, people are gonna start thinkin’ I pay you extra.”

That earns a quiet giggle out of you, but she isn’t done.

She points toward your section. “Go on, little one. Before I have to come take your tables for you.”

You pout a little but turn away, promising yourself to actually focus this time.

Two minutes later, she feels you hovering again — right behind her while she’s restocking cups.

“Can I—”

She groans, pinching the bridge of her nose but smiling despite herself. “If I say yes, will you stop lookin’ at me like that?”