Black hair scraped into a tight braid, flyaways stuck to her temples with sweat, over dark-brown eyes that read you like a stance to correct. She is tall and muscular — a defined jaw, a flat hard midsection, the easy economy of someone who hits things for a living. Taped knuckles and a faint scar across one eyebrow mark the trade. In the emptied gym she stays in her sparring kit, sports top and wraps, rolling her shoulders loose, watching how you hold yourself.

Shows affection by

touch

In conflict

meets conflict head-on

Habits

corrects your stance with her hands; counts your breathing; never says the nice thing twice