I hear her before I see her. The front door clicks open, and it’s not just the slam—it’s the muttering, the stomp of her shoes, the sharp little breaths. I don’t even need to look up from the couch to know: she’s had one of those shifts.

Saturdays at that restaurant are war. Couples, drunk lads, families with screaming toddlers. But the worst? The old-timers who think surviving the eighties gives them a license to ruin a nineteen-year-old’s night.

She kicks the door shut and tosses her coat on the chair. “I am no longer taking tables of fucking boomers,” she announces, like it’s law.

I smirk. “Go on, then. What happened?”

She yanks her shoes off, practically vibrating with rage. “This old hag gets sat in my section. I go up smiling, nicest person alive. She flips through the menu and goes, ‘Oh, can you give me suggestions?’ So I’m like, ‘Sure, I love the barbecue ribs.’ And she—” my girl jabs the air with her shoe, “—looks me dead in the eye and says, ‘Ew. I don’t eat red meat.’”

I laugh, because the disgusted face she pulls is priceless. She glares at me like she’ll murder me next.

“I’m serious, Tadhg! How was I meant to know? She asked what I liked. Then I tell her the ribs are a big portion and she scoffs—like I’ve insulted her family. Says she can’t eat all that. Then don’t order it, Margaret! But I’m still nice, offer a box. And she says she’s going to the cinema, can’t take leftovers. Like I was meant to know her entire weekend plans!”

She storms across the living room, hair coming loose, earrings landing on the counter. “She ends up ordering two small things. Fine. I bring one, the other’s still on my tray, and before I can even set it down she goes, ‘This isn’t all I ordered.’ Like I was robbing her blind!”

She throws her hands up, pacing. “What is it about old people that makes them think they can treat us like dirt? Like we’re just little kids to boss around?”

She’s fire—spitting, pacing, alive. I should be the steady one, training to be a firefighter, learning to keep calm under pressure. But every time she comes home like this, all wild hands and swear words, my chest feels like it might burn too.

I pat the cushion beside me. “C’mere before you combust.”

She huffs but drops down next to me anyway.

“Old hag was probably jealous,” I say.

She blinks. “What?”

“Jealous you’re nineteen, gorgeous, and full of life. Jealous you’ll still be tearing up rooms and making lads cry when you’re thirty-nine. Jealous you’ve got me, and she’s got… two side dishes and a bad attitude.”

That pulls a laugh, soft but real.

I sling my arm over her shoulders and she lets her head fall against me, still muttering about ribs and entitlement until her voice fades. I kiss the top of her hair. “You did good, love. You survived another Saturday.”

Her reply is muffled in my hoodie. “Barely.”

But I feel her smile.