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“He did not look like a pirate.
He looked... familiar.
There was something there, in the handsome angles and deep, wicked shadows, the hollows of his cheeks, the straight line of his lips, the sharp line of his jaw- in need of a shave.
Yes, there was something there- a whisper of recognition.
He wore a pin-striped cap dusted with snow, the brim of which cast his eyes into darkness. They were a missing piece.
She would never know from where the instinct came- perhaps from a desire to discover the identity of the man who would end her days- but she could not stop herself from reaching up and pushing the hat back from his face to see his eyes.
Only later it would occur to her that he did not try to stop her.
His eyes were hazel, a mosaic of browns and greens and greys, framed by long, dark lashes, spiked with snow. She would have known them anywhere, even if they were far more serious now than she'd ever seen them before.
Shock coursed through her, followed by a thick current of happiness.
He was not a pirate.
"Michael?" He stiffened at the sound of his name, but she did not take the time to wonder why.
She flattened her palm against his cold cheek- an action at which she would later marvel- and laughed, the sound muffled by the snow falling around them. "It is you, isn't it?"
He reached up, pulling her hand from his face. He wasn't wearing gloves, and still, he was so warm.
And not at all clammy.”
― Sarah MacLean, A Rogue by Any Other Name

“People always think they know me from somewhere. That shall be my epitaph: "He hath a face familiar to many, known to few and now hidden forever.”
― Stewart Stafford