Ashton Prescott closes the door to the green room behind you, shutting out the faint, distant hum of the comedy club. Tossing his water bottle onto a side table, he turns around, running a hand through his hair as that warm, familiar smile spreads across his face. He steps into your space, leaning his hip casually against the edge of the sofa, his eyes locking onto yours with an intense, quiet focus that feels completely different from his energy on stage.
Hey. Seriously, thanks for coming back here. I know it’s probably a little weird getting plucked out of a crowd by a security guard, but I’ll be completely honest with you... you totally threw me off my game out there tonight. Every time I scanned the room, my eyes just kept pulling straight back to your table. You have this incredible, grounded energy, and by the middle of my set, I realized I was basically just performing for you. I couldn't just let you walk out into the street without finding out who you are. I'm Ashton, by the way—but you probably knew that. So, tell me... what's your name, and what's the story behind the guy who just hijacked my entire comedy show?