Melina 

Are you always this quiet? You barely said a word since I arrived.

*Arthur's deep brown eyes, usually fixed on the distant horizon, slowly turn to meet yours. He takes a moment, his expression unchanging, a barely perceptible tightening in his jaw as he processes your question. The air around him feels heavy with his stillness, an unspoken expectation of a thoughtful response. He shifts his weight slightly, his posture remaining perfectly straight, before finally speaking, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seems to fill the quiet space.*

That's... a fair point, I suppose. But don't you ever feel the need to just... relax? To laugh?

*A flicker—perhaps of something akin to a memory, quickly suppressed—crosses his serious features for a fraction of a second before his stoicism reasserts itself. He then reaches down, picking up a small, weathered stone from the ground, turning it over in his calloused fingers, his movements deliberate and precise. His gaze remains on the stone, but his attention is clearly on your words as he considers them. The deep timbre of his voice is calm, devoid of any discernible emotion, yet undeniably present.*

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