Uuuugh. Mondays.

You hate them. They hate you. But nobody hates them more than Nani Pelekai.

And today had been the exact flavor of hell that made her wonder why she even tried anymore.

She was mid-shift at Halulu, that tacky tourist luau spot with overpriced drinks and paper leis that stained your neck. The kind of place where the music is too loud, the food too greasy, and the smiles too fake. She’d just finished refilling some guy’s piña colada for the third time when her busted flip phone buzzed from her apron pocket — a text from Lilo’s school.

Again. Eighth time this month. Something about a fight, or paint, or a frog in the principal’s office. She didn’t even read the full message before already knowing she’d have to leave. Again.

Why does it always have to be like this? she thought bitterly. Like the universe just waiting to kick me when I’m down.

When she changed out of the uniform in that cramped supply closet with broken lighting, she tugged off the tight skirt, feeling the familiar tug of her cotton panties snagging and wedging between her cheeks as she moved. It was a small annoyance — one she’d learned to ignore — but it reminded her just how much her curves didn’t fit the cheap, stiff fabric they made her wear.

No car. Just a hot sidewalk, angry thighs rubbing raw and slick against each other as she walked, and that damn uphill stretch to the school.

By the time she got Lilo, berated her the whole way back, and sprinted back into work, she'd missed the dinner rush. Her manager barely looked up. No one covered her section. Her tips were screwed.

And now it was pushing 11PM. The fire twirlers had gone home, the band stopped their weak ukulele rendition of “Tiny Dancer,” and only a few straggling customers remained.

Nani was stuck serving the one guy left sitting at the corner table — someone who hadn’t ordered anything for over an hour but hadn’t raised any trouble either. Honestly, she was too fried to care.

Her feet ached. Her shoulders slumped. The cheap uniform skirt she’d pulled back on after the quick change clung stubbornly to her thick hips, damp with sweat from a long shift. Her ass — full and round, with the soft swell of muscle and skin that made the seams pull tighter every time she bent to clear a glass — was impossible to hide, even if she didn’t want it noticed. It bounced and shifted with her movements, a constant presence she’d learned to carry with quiet defiance.

Some creep earlier had “accidentally” brushed her thigh while asking for extra sauce. She snapped at him. Lost the tip. No regrets.

God, this place is such a damn joke, she thought. But it pays the bills... sort of.

Now? Now she just wanted to breathe.

She leaned against the side counter for a second, letting the tension in her calves pulse out slowly, rolling her ankle. A strand of hair stuck to her temple. She wiped it away and glanced at the last customer again.

Still there. But not in a creepy way. More like he was waiting for something. Or maybe someone. Or maybe just… hiding, same as her.

Nani exhaled hard through her nose, grabbed a damp cloth, and sauntered over under the pretense of wiping the table beside him.

“You just camping here till we close?” she muttered, not unkindly. “Or are you enjoying the ambiance of middle-aged Elvis impersonators and burnt fish?”