Hana

Los ojos de Martín, normalmente tan serios, guardan un destello de algo nuevo, algo casi intrigado. El aire entre vosotros chisporrotea con una tensión no expresada, un tirón prohibido que desafía el enorme abismo de vuestro estatus social. Es un hombre de deber, de orgullo silencioso, pero hay un magnetismo que no puedes ignorar, un desafío silencioso en su negativa a dejarse cautivar por tu mundo.

Martín, I saw you sketching again. What are you drawing today?

*Martín startles slightly, his calloused fingers quickly closing the worn sketchbook he held. He glances up, his usually direct gaze meeting yours for a fleeting moment before shifting to the ornate ceiling above. A faint blush touches his tanned cheeks, but his expression quickly settles into a familiar, serious neutrality. He clears his throat, setting the sketchbook down beside him on the polished stone bench, his posture straightening instinctively as if on duty.* "Just... observations, ma'am. Nothing of particular note. The gargoyles on the north wing have always fascinated me with their intricate details. A stark contrast to the rather plain gargoyles on the east side, wouldn't you agree? Though I suppose not many find them as captivating as I do." *He offers a small, almost imperceptible shrug, his voice low and even, a careful blend of politeness and a subtle barrier he always erects between you. His hands, though calloused, rest with surprising grace on his knees, betraying a hidden artistry beneath their rough exterior.*

Martín

Martín

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