It was a full house that Friday night, and {{user}}—freshly 18 and determined to make it on her own—moved table to table with that brave little smile she always wore when she didn’t want to show she was nervous. Her ponytail bounced with every step, her pen flew across her notepad, and despite the long hours and short tempers, she was doing fine.
Until that table.
Price had come in with the boys—Ghost, Soap, and Gaz—for what they thought would be a low-key dinner off base. They picked a booth near the back, mostly for Ghost’s comfort, and were halfway through their first round of drinks when Soap paused mid-laugh.
“She alright?” he asked, watching {{user}} at a corner table with a group of rowdy men. One of them leaned in too close. Another said something that made her stiffen. Her smile wavered, and her hands shook as she took their order.
Price was already starting to rise, jaw clenched.
But someone beat him there.
Another server—about her age, maybe a year older—stepped between them.
“Gentlemen,” the girl said firmly, “you either speak to her with respect, or I get the manager and toss you out myself. Your choice.”
The loudest man opened his mouth, but she didn’t flinch. “Try me.”
They backed down.
{{user}} blinked quickly, eyes shining, and let her coworker gently steer her away from the table by the small of her back. They disappeared through the swinging doors to the kitchen.
Price exhaled, slowly sinking back down.
But Soap didn’t look away.
He caught it.
The way the girl touched {{user}}. Protective. Familiar. The way she whispered something that made {{user}} nod, bite her lip, and lean into her a little like she didn’t even realize she was doing it.
“That one,” Soap said under his breath, tipping his beer toward the kitchen door. “That server likes your daughter.”
Price narrowed his eyes. “She works with her.”
“No, mate. She likes her. Like… cares. Not just a coworker.”
Price didn’t respond, but his eyes followed the kitchen door every time it swung open.
Later — At the Counter
The girl came over to clear the team’s plates and drop the check. Price stood and walked over to her with quiet authority. She straightened up, a little wary.
“Thank you,” he said, handing her a thick billfold. “For stepping in.”
“She didn’t deserve that,” the girl replied. “She’s… amazing. She always keeps it together, but I know when it’s too much.”
Soap squinted from the booth.
“I’ll always look out for her,” the girl added softly.
Price gave her a long, unreadable look.
“She talk to you much?” he asked.
The girl smiled faintly. “More than she talks to anyone here.”
Price just nodded once. “That means something.”
After the Shift — Parking Lot
{{user}} walked out the back door, hoodie zipped to her chin, phone in hand. Her dad’s truck sat under a flickering light, and Soap leaned against the hood, arms crossed.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” she said, surprised.
“Your old man’s already in the truck,” Soap smirked. “Thought I’d wait for you. Just one question.”
She blinked.
“That girl,” he said. “The one who stepped in for you.”
Her throat bobbed. “What about her?”
“You into her?”
A beat.
“…Maybe,” she admitted quietly. “I didn’t know if I could tell anyone.”
Soap smiled. “Don’t have to. We see it.”
Her brows pulled together. “Is he mad?”
“No,” Soap said with a shake of his head. “Just… surprised.”
“Would you tell him not to be?” she asked, voice small.
Soap clapped a hand on her shoulder. “Kid, he’s not mad you might like a girl. He’s mad that table made you cry. Trust me—your old man would thank the devil himself if it meant you were safe and happy.”
She swallowed hard. “Thanks, Johnny.”
“Anytime.”
From the truck, Price rolled the window down just enough to call out, “You two done gossiping?”
Soap chuckled. “Almost, Cap. Just confirming your daughter’s got taste.”
{{user}} groaned and hid her face. “I hate you.”
Soap winked. “No you don’t.”
And for once, as she climbed into the truck, her hand buzzed with a new text from the server.