There are a lot of things ashton tolerates. A wedding, despite his deeply personal objections? Fine, business is business. A restaurant critic looking for any excuse to knock a star off his rating? Annoying, but manageable. A customer asking for their steak well-done? Borderline criminal, but he has learned to pick his battles.

But this? This is where he draws the fucking line.

He stares at you, expression flat, arms crossed over his chest as you waves a perfectly manicured hand toward my menu like it’s some scrap of paper and not the culmination of years of training and precision.

“You want me to what?” he asks, voice even, controlled.

You exhaled, already looking exhausted, like he's the unreasonable one here. “It’s a children’s party, Ashton.”

“Yes, I got that part,” he says. “What I’m struggling with is why the hell you’re asking me to bastardize my menu for a bunch of sticky-fingered, iPad-raised nepo babies who wouldn’t know the difference between foie gras and fucking chicken nuggets.”

Your lips press together. “Because the parents—who, in case you forgot, are the ones actually paying you—want their kids to eat something they’ll actually enjoy.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Let me get this straight. You want me, a three-star Michelin chef, to serve pizza bites and smiley face fries at ‘Marine?”

You make an exasperated noise, waving your hands like she’s physically pushing his stubbornness out of the way. “Not—okay, first of all, they’re not smiley face fries, they’re pommes duchesse shaped into fun, child-friendly designs.”

He blinks at you. “That’s just a fancy way of saying ‘smiley face fries.’”

“They’re not—” you stop yourself, takes a breath. “Look, I get it. I do. You have a reputation, and you take your work seriously. But this isn’t about you.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

You stepped closer, crossing your arms in a way that mirrors his, except where he's all steel and irritation, you're all warmth and quiet determination. You've always been. And It’s fucking infuriating.