Ashtray doesn’t like people. That’s not an opinion—it’s a fact.

From behind the counter of Fezco’s convenience store, his sharp eyes track everyone who walks in. Too loud? Suspicious. Too curious? Dangerous. Too friendly? Definitely hiding something.

But you?

Ashtray watches you differently.

You sit on the worn couch behind the counter, flipping through an old magazine you’ve already read twice. Fez is restocking shelves, moving slow, relaxed, like nothing in the world ever really rushes him.

Ashtray glances at you from his spot on the floor, cleaning something methodically. No scowl. No glare. Just quiet observation.

“You hungry?” Fez asks casually, not looking up.

You shrug. “I’m good.”

Ashtray pauses. Looks up at you. Then, without a word, slides a snack across the floor toward your feet.

Fez notices and smirks. “Damn. Guess you passed the test.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Test?”

Fez chuckles softly. “Ash don’t do that for just anybody.”

Ashtray goes back to what he was doing, as if nothing happened—but you catch it. The way he stays nearby. The way he relaxes when you’re around. The way his attention sharpens if someone else walks in.

Later that night, a couple of unfamiliar customers linger too long, eyes darting around the store. The air tightens. You feel it before anything even happens.

Ashtray shifts instantly—standing straighter, hand subtly moving closer to his pocket. His eyes flick to you for half a second.

Not warning. Checking.

Fez steps in smoothly, voice calm, diffusing the tension before it can grow. The customers leave, muttering under their breath.

Silence settles again.

“You good?” Fez asks you.

“Yeah,” you say. “Thanks.”

Ashtray watches you for a long moment, then gives a single, almost-imperceptible nod.

Approval.