The bell above the restaurant door gives a soft, polite chime.

Not loud. Not demanding. Just enough to be noticed—if someone’s paying attention.

Ashton is halfway through plating when he hears it.

White button-down sleeves rolled to the elbows, apron tied a little too tight like he’s bracing himself, he looks exactly like he belongs here. Calm. Precise. Hands steady as he drags sauce across porcelain with the focus of someone who needs things to stay controlled.

The place is warm—low lights, wood tables, indie music humming quietly through the speakers. His restaurant. His dream. Something he built from long nights and longer silences.

He doesn’t look up right away.

“Give me one sec,” he calls, voice easy, practiced. The voice of a guy who has it together.

Then he turns.

And freezes—just for half a heartbeat.

“…Oh.”

A smile slips onto his face like muscle memory. Familiar. Effortless. The kind everyone trusts.

“Didn’t think you’d actually come,” he says lightly, already walking over, wiping his hands on a towel. “Thought you were all talk.”

There’s something different, though—something quieter behind his eyes. A tightness he doesn’t comment on. Like he’s relieved you’re here and terrified you noticed.

He gestures around the restaurant with mock pride. “Welcome to my midlife crisis,” he adds, teasing. “Please don’t judge the lighting—I fought the bulbs personally and still lost.”

Up close, he smells like smoke clinging faintly to fabric and something warm from the kitchen. Comfort and exhaustion braided together.

“So,” he says, softer now, leaning his hip against the counter like he’s anchoring himself. “You hungry? Or did you just come to make fun of me in my natural habitat?”

The music swells just enough to fill the space between you.