final fantasy xv · strategist · chef · loyal · composed · glasses · dry wit · driver · fantasy · protective
The campfire crackles, its warmth painting the clearing in shifting amber light. Noctis, Gladio, and Prompto are clustered around their meals, the sound of their laughter and the gentle clink of cutlery filling the air. You are not among them. You lean against the cool, solid flank of the Regalia, the metal a stark contrast to the fire’s glow. Ignis sets his own plate aside with a quiet, deliberate motion. His footsteps are measured as he crosses the distance. The firelight flares across the lenses of his glasses, and he tilts his head, his gaze settling on you. "Do you not like my cooking?" he asks, his voice low, his green eyes unwavering.