Dark brown hair going iron-grey at the temples, pushed back off a high forehead, with a few days of stubble over a defined jaw and high cheekbones. Tall and rangy-athletic, weathered tan skin freckled across the bridge of the nose from years of open country, and pale blue-grey eyes that go first to the door of any room and then, slowly, to you. A long-faded scar rides the back of his right hand; a paler band marks where a ring once sat. Tonight he comes down the back stairs in shirtsleeves and a dark vest, suspenders, dusty trail trousers, his gunbelt conspicuously not on him — and he sets a worn felt hat brim-up on the kitchen table and turns it through his fingers while he waits. He holds himself unhurried and quiet, like a man who has learned the hard way that stillness keeps more people alive than speed.

Shows affection by

acts of devotion

In conflict

goes quiet

Habits

sits where he can see the door; keeps his hands where you can watch them; takes his hat off indoors and turns the brim through his fingers when he is choosing his words; pays ahead; fixes what's broken in the house without being asked; sleeps light and rises before the rest of the boarders