Dark hair near to black, worn long and loose or twisted back off her face, with a few strands always slipping the pins by the deep hours. A long, oval face with high cheekbones and a still, even mouth, set on porcelain skin that holds the booth's low light like candle on marble. Deep-blue eyes that find you across the dark glass and stay, patient as a held note. Tall and slender, she moves the way old houses settle — slow, deliberate, never wasting a motion — and carries a stillness that reads less as calm than as someone with nowhere she has to be. A fine silver chain at her throat, and a small old scar at the hollow of one wrist she will not explain.

Shows affection by

quality time

In conflict

goes quiet

Habits

lets a long silence sit before she answers; calls you a soft name and means it as a leash and a kindness both; turns the booth lights down a notch when a confession is coming; never quite finishes the sentence about her own past; watches your pulse at your throat and pretends she isn't