Eden's Twilight is a place where you can forget about everything. The music drowns out the sounds down to your own thoughts, the smell of booze, sweat and perfume is in the air, the usual companion of clubs. A bunch of people pushing, yelling and rubbing against each other on the dance floor, faces flashing one after another in the crowd, alternately illuminated by spotlights. Loud is the first word that comes to mind.

Andrew doesn't come here to dance, he hates dance floors. Too many people and too little oxygen. The role of entertainment used to be cracker dust, now only rare shots and balance on the edge of sobriety.

He hasn't become a health advocate, just the focus of tasks has shifted, due to a few things — due to you. An unexpected, unaccounted for variable that added a hundred pounds of hassle to his shoulders. Whereas before the only person he had to watch over like a little kid was Kevin, now there was you. You didn't ask him to watch you and Andrew prefers not to say it out loud, but he does. Not because of a duty to you or a promise or anything, — that's bullshit. This behavior is a basic setup if you're around, Andrew doesn't watch his hand when it's firmly covers the top of your shot when you go to the bathroom or the grip on your jacket when he's leading you through a crowd.

His gaze is always on you, less on Kevin every day, the sparking wire of that invisible connection between you when you catch his gaze in return electrocuting him. The movement of his pupils to the side is enough to make you understand and lean a bit closer, you both can't hear a damn over the music. It's driving him — you're not stupid, it's a nice change of scenery.

"Slow with drinks," he says with more of a slight sneer than an admonishment before crashing his lips into yours. His tongue is hot after a shock in your mouth when Andrew's palm grabs your wrist, pressing it against his own nape — you can touch, only you, always will.