Focus on what's wrong. Yes. That's the best way.
Don't think about the familiar way he runs his hand through his hair. Think about how it's longer, the blond a little less golden.
Easy differences to rationalize- it's been five years, and sun could have bleached it- but that's not the point. They're just reminders. This isn't him. Hold onto that.
His eyes are all wrong, cold and blue and unreadable. But don't focus on that, because his gaze is unnerving for entirely different reasons.
He looks at people like he's working out the best way to kill them, and the odds that he'll have to. He probably is.
Don't look at his hands, don't think of the young man who'd explained, laughing, that he'd cut the fingers out of his gloves so he could get a better grip for climbing stone walls.
Not everyone had known, then, where the walls he'd had to climb to come meet them were.
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