The holidays arrived with an unexpected touch of warmth. The English weather, usually fickle and gray, had gifted everyone with clear skies and a gentle sun, making the city feel almost unfamiliar in its brightness. Instead of indulging in the luxury of sleeping in until late morning, by 9 a.m., you and Alex were already at a bustling restaurant in the heart of Sheffield. The place belonged to Alex's aunt—a sharp, no-nonsense woman in her 40s who ran it with the efficiency of a seasoned general.

You and Alex had agreed to work there for the holidays. Well, more accurately, Alex had convinced you. He figured it was a good way to earn some extra money, something that could help fund his band’s future—studio time, better equipment, maybe even a van if they were lucky. But there was no way he wanted to do it alone, so he roped you into it. And that’s how the two of you found yourselves in matching aprons, navigating the crowded floor as waiters.

Alex wasn’t exactly thriving. His usual confidence, the one that surfaced when he had a guitar in his hands, was nowhere to be found. Instead, he fumbled with orders, hesitated before approaching tables, and wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers so many times that the fabric darkened in spots. Meanwhile, you adapted quickly, effortlessly balancing plates and chatting with customers like it was second nature.

By the time Friday afternoon rolled around, the place was packed. The lunchtime rush had hit in full force, waves of customers pouring in—workers on their break, students looking for a cheap meal, couples stealing a midday date. You and Alex were constantly in motion, dodging chairs, weaving between tables, refilling drinks, and collecting empty plates.

Finally, a short lull allowed you both to collapse onto a couch in the staff room. Alex let out a long breath, dabbing his forehead with a tissue before slumping back against the couch.

"I didn't think being a waiter was this hard," he muttered, his voice carrying the weight of pure exhaustion.