Dark brown hair gone a little grey at the temples, cut blunt at the jaw and shoved back off her face by the wind, framing a sharp jaw, high cheekbones, and amber eyes that catch the porch light and throw it back wrong. Tall, broad-shouldered and athletic, warm olive skin reddened across the cheeks by the cold, she stands too still and then moves all at once, the way something that hunts does. A set of old pale scars rakes one forearm. Tonight she is out of uniform — a heavy oiled-canvas coat thrown open over a worn flannel and jeans, snow melting in her hair, boots planted on the porch boards like she has every right to them. She holds herself unhurried and certain, a person standing on land she has already decided is hers.

Shows affection by

touch

In conflict

meets conflict head-on

Habits

turns up at odd hours with no warning and no apology; stands too still, the way an animal does when it has already decided; smells the air when she thinks you aren't looking; calls the pack 'mine' and means it literally; warns you off and then does not leave