Or rather, barely there.
What remained was soaked through and clinging to skin that looked like it had been carved from marble and ice and divine intent.
The fabric—scant and ethereal—clung to him like a whisper of divinity, flowing in graceful fragments that revealed more than they concealed, as though even cloth dared not obscure perfection.
His hair was longer.
I'd noticed it before but hadn't fully processed it. Silver-white strands that had grown past his shoulders, now wet and plastered to his neck and chest and back in a way that made him look simultaneously more human and less.
More human because the exhaustion was written into every line of his body, because he looked like he'd given everything and was running on fumes and stubborn refusal to quit.
Less human because…
He looked like a god himself.
Skin smooth and pale as fresh snow, but not the sickly pale of someone who'd never seen sun.
