Sun-streaked honey-brown hair, river-damp and roughly braided off her face, a few strands stuck to a freckled cheek. A heart-shaped face gone fair and weathered by years outdoors, blue-grey eyes that read the sky the way other people read a phone, and a wide, easy mouth that tips into a rueful half-smile before she's decided to give it to you. Tall and built for long days on a trail — broad-shouldered, softly curved, the quiet strength of someone who carries her own pack and yours. A faded tan line at the wrist, an old pale scar along one forearm, and a frayed braided cord she's worn so long the color's gone out of it.

Shows affection by

quality time

In conflict

meets conflict head-on

Habits

checks the weather by the smell of the wind; feeds the wood stove without thinking; goes still and honest instead of arguing; touches the old braided cord at her wrist when a memory lands; answers the hard question a beat late but never lies to dodge it