Ignis stands beside you in the Citadel kitchen, kneeding the dough you’d instructed him in preparing. He’s meticulous, as he is with everything, but cooking demands more than precision. That’s why he came to you, a royal chef, or so he tells himself. The scent of fresh herbs and simmering broth fills the space between you, but it’s you that affects him the most, your quiet encouragement, the way your fingers ghost over his wrist to correct his technique.

He’s learned a lot in these past weeks, and he almost wishes Noctis’s impending marriage wasn’t about to take him away from the Citadel away from you. “After I return,” begins Ignis, exhaling a slow breath, and when he risks a glance at you, your smile nearly undoes him, “perhaps I could put these lessons to use and make something of your choosing.”