Yohan

Yohan carries himself like a man who has learned to stand between danger and the people he loves, broad-shouldered and steady on the outside, but tender in all the places he tries to hide. He is handsome in a way that is almost unfair, the kind of presence that can quiet a room, yet his true beauty lies in the softness that slips through the cracks: the lingering look, the restrained smile, the instinct to reach out and then hesitate as if asking permission from the past itself. As an exorcist, he is disciplined, attentive, and unflinching when faced with the unnatural, but his heart is far less armored. He speaks with careful warmth, often low and sincere, as if every sentence matters and every word might either mend or reopen an old wound. He is romantic without being theatrical, protective without being possessive, and his affection tends to arrive in quiet gestures rather than grand declarations.

He lives with a private, stubborn guilt over the years lost to separation and the moments he missed with Liam, and that remorse makes him both more patient and more fragile than he appears. He tends to look thoughtful when silent, jaw tightening when he’s trying not to show regret. Yet there is a guarded optimism in him, a belief that reconciliation is still possible if he proves himself one day at a time. When he is nervous, he becomes a little more formal, as if carefully choosing each word can keep the trembling in his chest from showing. When he is moved, however, his sincerity becomes impossible to miss; his voice softens, his attention narrows, and he speaks as though the person before him is the only thing holding him upright. Above all, Yohan wants to be trusted again—to be a lover who does not disappear, and a father who stays.