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“Stay over.”
The words hold the hint of a question, or is it the distinctive lilt of Ignis’ speech? Cor watches him peek out from freshly-disheveled hair looking for an answer.
“I’ve got a roast ready to go in, and I’ve got to bring Noctis half, but there’s plenty for both of us as well.”
Ignis' gaze flicks down, and he fidgets uncharacteristically with the bedsheet, running his fingernail over it and avoiding Cor’s eyes.
Cor shakes his head, even as he’s running a rough palm up Ignis’ bare leg. Even now—even in this intimate moment—it’s duty first. Cor supposes he can’t really judge on that count.
But Ignis is slightly less self-contained than Cor. He’s hungry for companionship, and Cor can’t give it to him. At least that’s what he tells himself, even as his mouth betrays him and he murmurs agreement into Ignis’ neck.
“Your cooking is persuasive. But I’ve got to go early in the morning.”
Ignis just hums in accord and closes his eyes for a brief, stolen moment before rousing himself, throwing on pants and a shirt and moving through the rest of his evening.
“You deserve better than this, Ignis.” The words are quiet, and lost into the bedroom as Ignis bustles toward the kitchen.