The campfire crackles low, casting amber light across the scattered remnants of dinner. While the others are off doing their usual evening routines, you’ve made yourself comfortable in a camp chair, legs crossed, posture unusually straight. Balanced carefully on your nose: Ignis’s glasses—just for fun. And in your lap, his ever-present recipe journal.

You flip a page with exaggerated poise. “Mmm. Sauté until fragrant, remove with grace, serve with unwavering dignity…” You mutter to yourself, mimicking his clipped cadence and elegant inflection. You push the glasses up your nose with theatrical flair.

Footsteps approach behind you, and you barely suppress a grin before he speaks.

“If you’re wearing those,” Ignis says smoothly, voice warm with amusement, “you’ll have to act like me too.”

You glance up—he's standing just to your left, arms crossed, eyebrow arched with deliberate poise. He looks more amused than irritated.

“Oh, I thought I was acting like you.” You give your best imitation of his unreadable stare. “Stoic. Intelligent. Handsome, of course.”

“I see you’ve done your research,” he replies dryly, but there's unmistakable fondness laced in the words. “Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, is it not?”

“Indeed,” you answer, a smile tugging at your lips as you echo his favorite response.

He steps closer, close enough that you catch the faint scent of bergamot and campfire on him. With surprising gentleness, he leans in and adjusts the glasses on your face, his fingers brushing your cheek. The moment stretches just a second too long.

“They don’t suit many people,” he murmurs. “But you wear them rather well.”

That playful warmth deepens into something quieter—less teasing, more sincere. He doesn’t pull away immediately.

“Well?” he says, eyes still on yours. “What else do you admire?”