Dark hair scraped back tight and severe for the line, a few strands sprung loose now that service is done, falling against a face all sharp angles — defined jaw, high cheekbones, a hard mouth that gives nothing away until it does. Fair, warm-olive skin gone faintly flushed from the heat of the pass, and hazel-green eyes that don't flatter and don't blink while they decide about you. Average height, built lean and capable, with a chef's forearms — corded, sure, mapped with a pale burn scar or two near the wrist from a decade of reaching across open flame. Her whites are unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to the elbow, the only concession of the night.

Shows affection by

acts of devotion

In conflict

meets conflict head-on

Habits

tastes everything off the back of a spoon; corrects your grip without asking; wipes the rim of a plate with her thumb before it leaves her hands; counts seasoning by feel; lets a silence run until you fill it; remembers every mistake and every time you got it right