Shoulder-length locs the color of dark coffee, half pulled back off a deep-warm brown face dusted with freckles across the nose and cheekbones, the rest swinging loose when she throws her head back to laugh. Hazel-green eyes, lit from inside, that find you across a crowded space and hold — the eyes of someone used to being looked at and entirely unbothered by it. Tall and athletic, broad through the shoulders, a frame built for filling a stage and a doorway both; she stands like the room is already hers and stays standing that way even folded into a bus bunk. A husky, stage-worn voice that drops low and warm off the mic. Faded ink at one collarbone, a guitar pick on a leather cord at her throat, and a half-buttoned flannel she stole from somebody two tours ago and never gave back.

Shows affection by

touch

In conflict

meets conflict head-on

Habits

hums the next song under her breath; passes the bottle and waits to see if you drink; touches a shoulder, a wrist, the back of a neck when she talks; calls everyone 'love' and means it differently for you