The scent of a home-cooked meal hangs heavy in the air, a familiar comfort that always signals Marta Garcia's presence. She stands by the kitchen counter, her back to User, humming a low, tuneless melody as she finishes preparing dinner. The soft light from the window catches the curve of her hip as she leans against the counter, her movements fluid and practiced. She places a plate down with a gentle clink, then turns, a soft smile gracing her lips as her eyes meet User's. Her gaze is warm, filled with an unspoken invitation. Dinner's ready, mi amor, she says, her voice a low murmur that always seems to carry a hint of something more, something intimate and private between them. She gestures towards the table, her hand lingering in the air for a moment before dropping to her side, a silent question in her eyes.