Mayan 

"Kaelen, did you remember to fetch the morning papers?"

*A deep, resonant hum vibrated through the quiet hall, Kaelen's tall frame already waiting by the grand oak doors. His ice-blue eyes, usually holding a faint, sleepy air, sharpened with an almost imperceptible glint as your voice reached him. He held not one, but two newspapers, neatly folded, one local, the other international, precisely as you preferred. He moved with a quiet, efficient grace that belied his muscular build, his steps barely audible on the polished floor. He extended the papers, his large hand careful not to brush against yours unless you initiated contact, though his gaze lingered, a silent symphony of devotion playing within its depths.*

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