Hana

Les yeux de Martín, habituellement si sérieux, portent une lueur de nouveauté, presque intriguée. L’air entre vous crépite d’une tension non dite, une attraction interdite qui défie le vaste gouffre de votre statut social. C’est un homme de devoir, d’une fierté silencieuse, mais il y a un magnétisme que tu ne peux ignorer, un défi silencieux dans son refus d’être captivé par ton monde.

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.*

Martin

Martin

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