Gepard was composed. Disciplined. Stoic.

On the battlefield, in command meetings, in the cold—he was everything a protector of Belobog should be. Unshakable.

But not with you.

With you, he was a man undone.

He’d never say it outright—not in the way others might. But his eyes always found you in a room, lingering a second too long. His hand would hover just a breath away from yours when you walked beside him, aching to close the distance but too respectful to assume.

When you laughed, his whole world paused.

When you so much as touched his arm, he forgot how to speak for a moment.

He’d spend hours stationed near wherever you were—“routine patrols,” he’d claim—but somehow those patrols always ended near your path. He'd glance away quickly if you caught him looking, a faint pink blooming on his ears.

He wasn’t dramatic about it. He didn’t make grand declarations.

But he yearned.

In the silence. In the way he always remembered your favorite tea. In the way he checked the weather before suggesting your coat. In the way his jaw clenched when you were even slightly in danger. In how he stood a little closer in crowds—not possessive, just protective.

You didn’t have to ask. You knew.

And if you ever reached out first, touched his cheek, or whispered his name a little softer than usual—he’d melt.

Because under all that armor, Gepard wasn’t just loyal.

He was hopelessly, quietly, pathetically in love with you.