He’s blinding in the snow. A standing oxymoron in all black against the white barren winter landscape surrounding them. Snowflakes flutter around them softly and his blond hair ruffles in the whistling wind, singular strands landing stubbornly against his forehead. There’s a pink flush to the balls of his cheek because of the cold and the exertion, and another splatter of red against the pale of his throat peeking out of the robes for some other reason entirely. His shoulders have gotten broader since she’s last seen him months ago and there’s a scar on the left side of his jaw shaped like half of a broken heart. And she hates herself for noticing these things, storing them away in her mind, and then recalling them in times of carelessness. 