You were just tired.

You worked as a waitress in a job that kept you until late at night. Eleven-hour shifts, leaving the restaurant at midnight. By one in the morning, you were already back. The lack of sleep, the muscle aches from standing all day, the heavy liquor crates you lifted, running from one table to another, the lack of proper nutrition… it was all killing you.

And you were only seventeen.

When you came home late, your father only asked why you were so late and how much your boss paid you. — Rarely, very rarely — did he ask if you were tired. And when you told your mother that you were exhausted and hungry, she simply pointed to the kitchen. No, they weren’t careless parents — just typical ones. They could be warm when they wanted to, but at the times you needed it most, they disappointed you.

Every penny you earned went straight to debts. They didn’t force you, but they made it painfully clear that you had no other choice. Still, sometimes you just wanted to hear your father say “Are you tired, lass?” Or hear your mother ask “Are you hungry, sweetheart?” They weren’t the type of parents to care about your aches and exhaustion, but waiting for it didn’t kill you, did it?

Your head waiter, Simon Riley, wasn’t as rough as he seemed. He barked orders and looked harsh from the outside, but with you, he had a soft spot. Beyond your wages, he sometimes slipped you extra cash after shifts, gave you a ride home, ruffled your hair, joked around with you, or gave you a warm smile. Strange little gestures — but at the end of the day, he was still your superior.

He knew about your family problems, about your lack of affection, about how hard you worked, about how much you needed the job, about your young age, about your exhaustion and pain, about your fragile state of mind. He understood. And in his own way, he tried to help.

That night, your shift was over. As usual, you were about to take off your uniform and leave, but your boss reminded you that you still had two minutes left — and told you to fetch the liquor crates from storage and stock them in the fridge. Of course, you couldn’t refuse. Forcing your already tired muscles, you carried out a few crates from the back.

As you stacked them into the fridge — your skin pale and drained — you suddenly heard a deep voice behind you.

“Weren’t you leaving, lass?”

You didn’t even need to turn around. You knew that voice — it was Simon’s. And that nickname he gave you… even your father had never called you that.