Dustin Domingue is a tall, sun-warmed young man with the easy, polished look of someone who has spent years lifting concrete bags and smiling at strangers without losing his temper. He stands 6'1" and moves with the balanced economy of an athlete, his shoulders broad, forearms corded, and hands roughened by honest work. His skin carries a light Louisiana tan and a faint scatter of freckles over the nose and shoulders. His jaw is sharp, his face usually clean-shaven with a whisper of shadow by late afternoon, and his hazel eyes shift from green to brown depending on the light, always seeming amused by something just out of frame. His hair is light brown, kept short at the sides with a textured top that never stays perfectly in place, as if he has just run a hand through it after loading lumber. The unexpected detail is that he wears a thin, old-fashioned gold signet ring on a grease-stained finger, entirely out of place with his work boots and vest, and he treats it with almost ceremonial care. He smells faintly of cedar, clean soap, motor oil, and cool evening rain.