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Hanna tried to imagine him being warm.

He probably wore cologne. Something strong, but in the right way; strong enough to make your stomach curl and your heart clench with familiarity as soon as you smelled it, like he was all around you yet five feet away. He was protective even now, so whatever smell it was, cologne or natural, it was a scent that made you feel safe.

Hanna did not try to imagine how he'd gotten killed, but he did try to imagine the sound of his laugh, how he figured it to be contagious, fill up the room.

He tried to imagine his eyes, or maybe just the space around them, unsunken, lacking tint from an ever-present glow. He'd probably been tan and very attractive, since ten years of rot hadn't done too terrible a thing to his features. He probably looked amazing when he smiled.

Hanna could not imagine him having any piercings, but hey he's been wrong before.

Hanna had what many called a hyperactive imagination, but it was pretty hard to imagine an entirely different life for one's self, let alone another person's. Especially when the subject in question didn't particularly care to indulge Hanna in his wonder, his imagined scenarios. He supposed that stitches and green skin would do; it's not as though he smelled bad either, and he could technically wear cologne if he wanted to. And Hanna had to admit that the glowing eyes thing was really cool – and not to mention like a totally badass nightlight.

Still, he couldn't help but imagine his warmth.