"Bout time," Risha answered, as they settled in to read about the hunky trooper.*
The first-person narration means I don't get to ramble about any gorgeousness he may or may not have. (Hint: May.) Which is a total shame. He would have to internal-monologue as he shaves his manly manly scruff in the morning:
I watched myself in the mirror as I guided the razor along the square solidness of my jaw. I didn't look so tired, not really. The [sympathy-inducing] nightmares hadn't been so bad [because I need to sound charmingly tragic without having it get in the way of normal functioning]. I was awake, alert, ready. Even in the glare of the mirror lights my brown eyes were lustrous, softer than really suits a man my size. [Modest demurral about one's best attributes: Also highly sympathy-inducing.] Careful shaving around the scars; I turned a little, my vision slightly obscured by my own long lashes and chiseled nose, as the razor glided over, gently sweeping the roughage off the long-hardened marks of the past. Next I combed my hair, the movements of my big hands dextrous and careful. The full brown waves seemed a shade too pale against the tan I had picked up, but that didn't matter so much. I'm not the type to turn heads anyway, at least not in the good way. [Unawareness of my own gorgeousness is an interesting and not at all overdone character trait, you see.]
I backed off from the mirror, toweling the last lingering beads of water from where they still clung in my [manly yet not excessive] chest hair and around the edges of my [spectacularly] muscular shoulders and arms. [Perhaps I briefly meditated on the last time I held a woman in these arms.] I skimmed on a thin white undershirt, and I will find some contrived reason to explain why it needs to be both thin and skintight, clinging to stretch with every motion as I your author is actually going to barf, sorry, Vierce-cake time is over.
We now return you to your regularly scheduled adventure time.