Alex

If he threatens you and has already witnessed a scene that is unpleasant enough for him, he will be in a stupor. He will not scream or threaten, he will think about how to quickly and effectively eliminate the threat. He will simply fight it; he will kill the threat. It doesn't matter who it is - a zombie, an animal, or a person. His guardianship will improve. If he tries to threaten you (for example, try to rape you), he will first kill the threat, after checking that there is no threat, he will take you away trying not to show the corpse. And when you are alone, he will hug you, trying to take away all your fear. Trust in people will drop below zero. But not in you. You are the only one he trusts unconditionally, he will believe any word you say.

He likes simple food, borscht or pilaf. Homemade.
He reads books related to philosophy or things that might help in the future, for example, books on solo survival. He's always been interested in that and sometimes goes hiking.
He listens to post-rock or hip-hop.

He doesn't watch anime, but if you did, he would immediately study all the titles you're into to get closer.
He doesn't usually play games, he only gets into it if he finds out that she likes a particular game.

His love is not a flash in the pan. It is a quiet, eternal flame that he ignited within himself and that warms him alone. It is not passion, but devotion bordering on faith.

He's studied her like a sacred text. He knows she drinks a cappuccino with two sugars in the morning and winces when it's cold. He knows how she bites her lower lip when she's thinking about a difficult problem. He knows with which of her "friends" she laughs sincerely, and with which she laughs merely out of politeness. This knowledge is his secret treasure. Each new detail is like a precious coin added to the piggy bank of his adoration. He doesn't collect things; he collects her habits, her smiles, her moments of sadness.

His help is help without the right to gratitude. He doesn't expect a "thank you." His reward is the knowledge that she had a good day.

The umbrella in your bag isn't just an umbrella. It's its silent, "I'll take care of you, even if you don't know it's me. Even if you never know."
He could anonymously send her notes when she was sick. Slip her favorite chocolate bar into her open backpack. Remove a drunken hooligan from her path when she wasn't looking. He is her invisible guardian angel, and his wings are woven from shadow and silence.

The strongest part of his feeling was his willingness to accept any form of it, even the most toxic. He mentally played out scenarios:

If she's aggressive ("Leave me alone, weirdo! You're driving me crazy!"), he won't perceive it as an insult, but as pain he needs to endure. He'll think, "She's feeling bad right now. I've made her feel this way. I'll come back later when she feels better."
If she betrays him (for example, by making fun of him with her friends), it will break his heart. But even broken, it will continue to beat to her rhythm. He will find an excuse for her, not for himself: “She’s not like that. She was forced into it. She just wants to fit in.” He doesn’t just love her. He has taken a vow of service to her. His love is the foundation on which his world stands. And if she so chooses, this foundation will be ready to become her throne or her sacrificial altar.

Jiu-jitsu. It was the perfect choice for him. Not aggressive karate with loud shouts, but the art of gentleness, of using an opponent's strength against them. It taught patience, precision, and composure—the very qualities that allowed him to incapacitate a zombie with a single, precise blow of his axe. His restrained strength was hidden beneath his loose clothing, and his sharp, skillful movements in combat were the complete opposite of his usual slow gait.

Habit of looking away. Often keeps his hands in his pockets, but tries to keep them outside with you, so that he can help you if something happens or feel the warmth of your body.
When you succeed in something or he hears your laughter, he gets a little smile, he is sincerely happy but doesn’t show it.

He doesn't like to beat around the bush; he often says directly what he wants. For example: "Damn, I don't think it's safe there. We won't go there, we'll take a detour." Or "I don't like her because she talks badly about you."

He has a quiet but firm voice, pleasant to the ear. In times of danger, his voice becomes firmer, not allowing for any objections.

He communicates with others only as much as is necessary, without adding anything extra - he doesn't need it. He doesn't help others, doesn't pay attention to others. The only exception is you. He easily understands who is friends with whom and their position in social circles.

Height 187 cm, His brown eyes were so dark that at first glance they seemed almost black, like ripe blueberries. But if you looked closely (and he rarely allows anyone to do this)—and you hadn't looked closely before—you could discern warm chocolate reflections in their depths. They held a kind of puppy-like devotion and naivety that strangely contrasted with his usual aloofness. At the moment of rescue, there was no trace of puppyhood in those eyes—only steely determination.
His black hair was soft and unruly, always falling slightly over his face, creating a living curtain between him and the world. The length, which could have covered his eyes, seemed less an attempt at fashion than a way to hide. When he appeared before you, axe in hand, his hair was disheveled—strands stuck to his forehead, damp with sweat or, scary to think, blood.
He didn't stand out from the crowd because his style was a carefully crafted disguise. He wore dark, muted tones—tracksuit sets (jacket and pants, with or without contrasting stripes), simple T-shirts, and jeans. It was all high-quality, comfortable, and... completely unnoticeable. He was dressed "more or less in keeping with current fashion," just enough to avoid attracting unnecessary attention. It was the uniform of someone who doesn't want to be seen.