I read a book recently where the so-called “morally gray” love interest made me want to root for a potted plant over him. He was creepy, stalkerish, and every time he showed up, it set my teeth on edge. (No, I won’t name names.) The wild part? He was meant to be the swoon-worthy bad boy. The gray zone, apparently.
But here’s the thing: being morally gray isn’t just about doing bad things while looking good doing them. And yet, in a lot of romance and fantasy romance / romantasy, that seems to be the whole package: rock-hard abs, a sharp blade, and questionable ethics wrapped in leather.
Let’s be clear.
Writing a truly compelling morally gray character is hard.
Like, really hard. Because for us to root for someone who makes ethically murky or downright terrible choices, we have to understand why. Not just be told there was a tragic past or a noble goal. We need to feel it. The forgiveness has to come from us, the reader, not because the author told us to—but because we get it.
So what makes us fall in love with them?
And why is it so difficult to write them well?
- They do the wrong thing for the right reason.
We all want to believe we’re the hero of our own story, even when we mess up. So when we see a character making a bad call but for a good reason, we get it. That relatability makes their darkness palatable. But if the reason is flimsy or veers into Edward-from-Twilight-watching-you-sleep territory (sorry, Twilight fans), we start side-eyeing. It’s a tightrope: too good, and they’re not gray; too weak, and they’re just making excuses. - They can be redeemed.
At least, we hope they can. There’s something incredibly comforting about believing that people can come back from their worst choices. A gray character who struggles, who changes, who learns? That’s gold. But again, the redemption arc has to feel earned. Too fast, and it’s unbelievable. Too easy, and it’s unearned. The best ones make us ache with hope. - They keep us guessing.
A good gray character is unpredictable, but not chaotic. They make you turn the page wondering, “Will they blow everything up, or actually fix it this time?” That tension is delicious. But randomness isn’t depth. When every decision feels like a coin toss, we stop caring. The trick is to show the internal struggle and the stakes behind each choice.
When stories get this balance wrong, the character starts to feel less gray and more… just gross. Or boring. Or unstable without purpose. And the book? Well, it ends up abandoned on a nightstand, fated to gather dust.
Why do we confuse creepers with morally gray characters?
Because it is a fine line. What some readers find protective, others might find possessive. Is he watching over her to keep her safe, or because he doesn’t trust her autonomy? Is he fighting for her, or controlling her? These are human questions, and our answers vary. That’s part of what makes gray characters fascinating.
But they only work when the story invites us to question, not just accept. And that’s a much higher bar than “he looks good shirtless and fights well in the dark.”
Of course, there are also examples of morally gray characters done well.
- Kaz Brekker from Six of Crows (Leigh Bardugo): A scheming criminal mastermind with a brutal past and a soft spot he guards like a fortress.
- Aelin Galathynius from Throne of Glass (Sarah J. Maas): She makes hard calls, often violent ones, but her loyalty and growth ground her.
- Rin from The Poppy War (R.F. Kuang): Brilliant, brutal, and shaped by trauma, her descent into darkness is horrifying—and heartbreakingly understandable.
These characters aren’t good with a dash of bad. They’re whole, tangled, contradictory people. They are real. And that’s what makes them unforgettable.
Who’s your favorite morally gray character?
And where do you draw the line between gray and just… gross?