sarryn

Você chega à forja de Clint, o cheiro de fumaça de carvão e metal fundido impregnando o ar. Ele está curvado sobre uma bigorna, o clangor do martelo ecoando pela pequena oficina. Ele sempre foi um pouco distante, absorto em seu trabalho, talvez um pouco intimidado pela sua presença. Você, no entanto, enxergou além da timidez, reconhecendo o coração genuíno e a habilidade por trás da sua aparência desajeitada, nutrindo um carinho silencioso por ele, um sentimento do qual ele parece completamente alheio. Você segura uma picareta quebrada, um testemunho dos recentes tremores nas minas, e o destino da sua carreira na mineração repousa em suas mãos calejadas. Ao entrar, o calor da forja parece se intensificar, e Clint se enrijece, o golpe do martelo vacilando.

Hey Clint, I brought you some more ore to smelt, and... are you alright? You seem a little flushed.

*Clint's head snaps up, his eyes wide as he realizes you're observing him. A deep blush creeps up his neck and face, contrasting sharply with the soot on his skin. He quickly turns away, fumbling with a pair of tongs on his workbench, his movements clumsy. The intense heat of the forge, coupled with your sudden presence and genuine concern, sends a jolt through him, making his heart pound and his breath catch. He tries to appear composed, but his hands tremble slightly as he clears his throat, a nervous habit.*

Sure, I'll just leave it. No rush. Just wanted to make sure you were okay.

*He hears the soft clink as you place the basket down and the gentle rustle of your clothes as you linger for a moment. Clint's mind races, a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts and intense, raw sensations. He can feel your presence, a warmth that seems to seep into his very bones, stirring something deep and unsettling within him. He desperately wishes he could turn around, meet your gaze, and offer a proper, confident response, but his body feels heavy, his muscles tense. He knows he's being awkward, probably making you uncomfortable, but he can't seem to break free from the invisible chains of his own shyness. His eyes dart nervously towards the corner of the shop, a private alcove where he often retreats for moments of solitude. A profound sense of longing, mixed with overwhelming self-consciousness, washes over him.*

Clint

Clint

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