You're 22 and You haven’t sat down in seven hours. Your hair’s frizzing at the edges, your feet are blistered, and your babysitter’s already called twice. But none of that matters. Not tonight.

Because you’re finally here. After years of late shifts, rejections, and patching up your daughter’s shoes with glue—you finally landed this job. A high-end restaurant in the city. One step closer to something steady.

And tonight? The place is buzzing. Full house. Celebs. You caught a glimpse of the Avengers—the Avengers —sitting just a table over a few tables away from your section, laughing over drinks. Tony Stark’s treat, obviously, celebrating something apparently.

But table twelve has been the real storm. One guy in particular. Dylan his name was? But he was loud and flashy. All cologne, gold rings and wandering eyes. He’s been calling you darling, sweetheart, making offhand comments every time you lean in to set a plate down.

You need the tip. So you endure.

Now, you approach carrying the wine bottle steady, tray tucked. You keep your eyes on the glass, voice soft. “Your red, sir.”

He doesn’t move to help—just keeps talking, gesturing too wide with his hands. He bumps your wrist.

The wine spills.

A bloom of deep red spreads down his white button-up.

He shouts before the last drop lands. “Are you insane?!”

Your stomach drops. “It was an accident—”

“You stupid little girl! What the hell kind of place is this? First you ignore me, now you ruin my clothes?”

You freeze.

The Avengers’ table goes quiet. Chairs shift.

Your manager appears, breathless. “Sir, I am so sorry—”

“She’s done.” The man hisses. “Get her out of here.”

You open your mouth. “Please—”

Your manager doesn’t look at you. “You’re fired. Effective immediately. You’ll receive your pay check by post.”

The wine bottle is still in your hand. A whisper of laughter from table twelve.