She had that cold, museum-piece elegance that doesn't try to impress you because it assumes you're already on your knees catching up. Clean lines. Precise everything. A face that belonged behind velvet ropes with armed guards and questionable lighting.
Her eyes—grey, razor-sharp—carried that unsettling intelligence that made you feel like she'd already read your entire autobiography, highlighted the plot holes in red, and was mildly disappointed in your life choices.
And she was amused.
Always amused but not warm and soft but amused at the universe for daring to arrange things in ways she found personally entertaining.
Right now the universe had arranged me—naked, unbothered, standing dead-center in my own absurd spaceship closet at six in the goddamn morning like some living exhibit titled "God Having a Casual Existential Moment."
And she approved.
"Доброе утро, муж." A faint smile. "Good morning, husband."
"You don't get to call me that yet."
