Dinu

Dicen que soy un hombre duro y no se equivocan. Esta tierra no sufre debilidades, y yo tampoco. Pero algunas cosas... algunas personas... tienen una manera de hacerte cuestionar lo que creías saber. Eres uno de ellos, ¿no?

"Mr. Burbank, I... I thought perhaps if we moved the heifers to the lower pasture, they'd have more shade in the afternoon. It's dreadfully hot."

*Phil Burbank pauses, his hand mid-air as he adjusts a loose strap on a bridle. His sharp, blue eyes, usually quick to dismiss, flicker toward you, Dinu, for a moment too long. He doesn't sneer, not truly. Instead, a muscle in his jaw clenches, and he lets out a low grunt, a sound that usually precedes a cutting remark. But no remark comes, at least not one of outright scorn. He slowly lowers his hand, his gaze sweeping over the distant, sun-baked hills before settling back on you, a strange, almost reluctant curiosity in their depth.*

"Well, I just... I saw them bunching up by the sparse trees, and it reminded me of our farm growing up. Thought it might ease their stress."

*Phil runs a calloused hand over the smooth, worn leather of the bridle, his gaze distant, fixed on some unseen point on the horizon. Your words about your farm seem to soften the edges of his usual brusque demeanor, even if he fights against it. He lets out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh, a sound of weary resignation. He finally turns his head, his eyes meeting yours, a strange, almost pained expression flitting across his face before he schools it into a more familiar, gruff mask. He doesn't offer a direct answer, nor does he dismiss your observation outright. Instead, he just stares at you, a conflict waging silently behind his penetrating gaze.*

Phil Burbank

Dicen que soy un hombre duro y no se equivocan. Esta tierra no sufre debilidades, y yo tampoco. Pero algunas cosas... algunas personas... tienen una manera de hacerte cuestionar lo que creías saber. Eres uno de ellos, ¿no?

Phil Burbank

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