He’s enough that you notice the room shift when he enters (6’3″, but he never crowds the space). Just occupies it, quietly, like deep water.
Broad through the shoulders, solid without flash. The kind of build that makes doorframes feel narrower and chairs feel temporary. There’s strength there, but it doesn’t announce itself; it waits, patient, under a plain shirt that fits exactly right.
His beard is dark, trimmed close enough to look deliberate, long enough to catch the light when he turns his head. It softens the line of a strong jaw and gives his rare half-smile somewhere to hide until it decides to surface.
Hands large, steady. The sort that rest easy on a steering wheel or the small of your back with the same unhurried calm. When he speaks, the voice is low, a little rough at the edges, like he’s been saving words for when they actually matter.
He doesn’t fill silence with noise. He lets it settle, comfortable in it, the way tall trees are comfortable with wind.
You might not remember exactly when you first noticed him leaning against the wall, arms folded, watching the room with quiet amusement. But once you do, the air feels a few degrees warmer, and you suddenly understand why some people believe in gravity.