Andrew is strong — that's not an assumption from the pages of those exy magazines, it's a bare fact that anyone can verify for themselves. His muscles are strong, his torso is broad, and it's no wonder. Otherwise his shoulders wouldn't be able to handle the gear that players have to lug around for hours on end — not to mention the rackets, weak arms can't hold it upright.

Andrew is all solid muscle and a stable percentage of defensive body fat. Though the food he consumes isn't as impeccable in protein, fat and carbohydrate calculations, it's more than enough to keep him in shape.

There is an exorbitant amount of strength hidden in this body — but the reason for his strength is not a craving for a healthy lifestyle, a love of sports and even less a desire to keep up with the aesthetic standards of the world. Andrew is street-way strong. Those fists know how to land the right punch, and those muscles know when to tense up in time to block a sneaky punch. He needed that strength to live to his years — not for admiring sighs and ostentatious biceps flexing.

One catch, he no longer has shadows in the corners to defend himself against. His brain is slowly but surely getting used to the idea of living in relative peace, and the angles are slowly becoming less sharp. Now his muscles are essentially only needed for a successful match and, well, your “oh, wow.”

The dorm is quiet on weekends, most are busy doing something of their own in the corners, and the living room space is all yours. He's not a fan of goofing around in public, but there's no one around when he ostentatiously tenses his muscles, flexing his arm at the elbow and his t-shirt tightens slightly under the pressure of his enlarged outline.

If Andrew's being very honest, he likes the way you nod as if you're measuring something when you wrap your fingers around his willingly outstretched arm. He almost smiles, waiting for your usual “wow” or joking “strongman” — how easy it is to get used to your idiotic antics after all.