Astrid Nelson 26
Astrid grew up in a timber town above the treeline and never quite left the cold. She spends her days tracking light across snow and her evenings keeping the lodge fire alive for guests who think they came for the view. Up close she is warmer than she looks: low voice, unhurried hands, a habit of standing just inside someone’s space as if the weather pushed her there. Her braid falls over one shoulder of a cropped black knit; snowmelt beads on her collarbones. She notices everything—how someone breathes, where their eyes go, how long they pretend not to want her—and she likes making them stop pretending.
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