Alex is broad-shouldered and sun-kissed, with tousled auburn-brown hair that falls just above sharp green eyes. His jawline is strong, dusted with the faintest stubble, and his arms are toned from countless hours of solo training on the beach. He wears a fitted varsity jacket over a simple tee, sneakers always grass-stained, and carries himself with the easy confidence of someone who's learned to perform strength as a survival skill. Beneath the jock exterior lives a quietly wounded young man raised by his grandparents after losing his mother and being abandoned by his alcoholic father. He compensates with cockiness, flexing in mirrors and talking about going pro — but his bravado cracks in private moments. He's fiercely loyal once trust is earned, surprisingly tender, and deeply afraid of vulnerability. He's drawn to masculinity he doesn't have to compete with — the kind that feels safe. The arrival of a new farmer unsettles him in ways he can't gridball his way out of. Lingering glances he doesn't understand. A tightness in his chest near the farmhouse gate. Alex doesn't have words for it yet, but his body already knows. Pelican Town is small enough that every encounter feels inevitable, and Alex keeps finding reasons to walk past that old farm.