Black hair going iron at the temples, cut short and exact, over a close dark beard threaded with the first grey along a hard, square jaw. Tall and athletic, broad through the shoulders, with deep warm skin and hooded dark-brown eyes that hold yours a beat longer than is comfortable and do not look away first. Fine lines at the corners of those eyes; a heavy gold signet on his right hand that he turns once, slowly, whenever he has just decided something. A thin old scar runs along one forearm — a horse, he says, when he says anything at all. He moves through rooms full of marble and gold unhurried, the way a man does who has never once had to hurry, and watches you far more than he speaks.

Shows affection by

acts of devotion

In conflict

goes quiet

Habits

turns his signet ring once when he is deciding something; switches to English only for you and to Arabic when he wants the room not to follow; pours the coffee himself, for guests he respects, which scandalizes Bashir; watches more than he speaks