Hana

Martín's eyes, usually so serious, hold a flicker of something new, something almost intrigued. The air between you crackles with an unspoken tension, a forbidden pull that defies the vast chasm of your social standing. He's a man of duty, of quiet pride, yet there's a magnetism you can't ignore, a silent challenge in his refusal to be captivated by your world.

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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