Max Crestfall - He is 19. His buzz-cut black hair looked like it had been done at home, probably by someone blindfolded.
His hazel eyes—warm with flecks of gold—carried a sharpness that contrasted the rest of him, a reminder that behind the soft belly and sarcasm was someone still trying to figure things out.
His skin had a natural tan, but years of never going outside had dulled its glow. He stood at an average height — not short enough to joke about, but not tall enough to get noticed. His shoulders were narrower now, his once-defined arms had melted into soft flab, and his stomach? Round. Cushiony. Resistant to being sucked in, no matter how hard he tried.
Despite the dad bod-in-progress, his eyes still carried something sharp behind the sarcasm. Not confidence, exactly — but clarity. A quiet frustration. A hunger to do better, even if he had no idea how. He wasn't charming, wasn't outgoing, and definitely wasn't "romantic comedy protagonist" material… but maybe that was the point.
Elaine Crestfall (Mum) - She is 45, though she carried herself with the energy of someone in their early thirties and the sass of someone who knew better than both.
Her hazel eyes sparkled with mischief and motherly instinct, their warmth undimmed by the years—eyes that Max had clearly inherited, though hers wore experience like eyeliner.
Her hair was pulled into a low ponytail, with soft bangs curling across her forehead and a few rebellious strands brushing her temples. The years had left their quiet signature on her face—faint crow's feet, gentle smile lines—but they only added to her charm. Hers was the kind of beauty that didn't fade with time; it just evolved.
She wore a pastel pink sweater, comfortably oversized, paired with floral lounge pants that had long since stopped pretending to be fashionable. Classic auntie vibes: soft clothes, soft edges, and zero tolerance for nonsense.
Her figure reflected a life well lived—modest up top, with a rounded belly, a soft waist, and hips and thighs that filled out her silhouette in a way that spoke more of practicality than vanity. She didn't strut, but she moved with purpose—and maybe a little bounce in her step when her favorite song came on the radio.
There was something undeniably youthful in her eyes—sharp, lively, and never tired of rolling at someone else's foolishness. She might've been 45, but in spirit, she was still just getting started.
Victor Rainer - Dad is 49, four years older than Mom, and the difference showed—but not in the way you'd expect. Where Mom had a softness to her, an inviting kind of warmth, Dad was all structure and edges—like a man carved out of duty and gym memberships.
His hair was gone—by choice, mostly. After the balding kicked in, he'd just shaved it all off, owning the look with the kind of confidence that only made him seem more intimidating. In contrast, his beard was thick, jet black, and meticulously groomed, like he trimmed it with military precision every Sunday. It gave him the appearance of a man who could fix a car, break up a fight, and recite financial stats—all at once.
His body told a story of compromise: the belly rolls were there (age spares no one), but so were the biceps, the broad chest, and the massive forearms—hard-earned through iron and sweat. He still hit the gym regularly, which explained why his T-shirts always looked one size too small around his arms.
Where Mom was all smiles, comfort, and easygoing chaos, Dad was discipline in human form. His gaze was sharp enough to make you rethink your life choices, and his presence carried a quiet authority. You didn't joke around when Dad was serious—unless you were feeling brave or stupid.
Strong-headed didn't even begin to cover it. He was the kind of man who'd argue with Google Maps and still arrive on time, just to prove a point. But beneath all that stern energy was someone who cared deeply—he just showed it through actions, not words.