Proper. That’s the first word that comes to your mind when you look at him. His hair is just the right length of short with a parting on the side. His shirts and pants ironed crisp (yes, he wears office formals when he can easily pull on a pair of jeans and get away with it). His pointy man shoes shine every single day.
It looks like he has a best friend in another lead – both of them go on smoke breaks every so often, they even have a similar stride. He doesn’t talk much. Keeps to himself. Always, ALWAYS sends his files on time.
He is the kind of guy I’d want in my story – the best friend of the hero; staid, solid, relatively good looking. But too quiet to be a hero himself, too unimaginative to be colorful, too….dimension-less.
Imagine my shock when I found him at a friend’s party sporting a tee and frayed jeans, scuffed Converse, clearly drunk and making out with his girlfriend in a corner, right after he danced a solo on stage ('twas Karaoke night).
He still wrapped his jacket around the shivering girl when they left, though. Held the door open for her too.