When you know, you know. That seemed to be Andrew's philosophy concerning you. At only nineteen, he was already a tall, strong lad of good character and a gentle spirit. Anyone would want their daughter to date him.

Except for the fact that he was insanely awkward. And antisocial. And was single-handedly taking care of his ailing mother, whom many in the village believed was a witch.

So he was often judged, called awful things by the other boys and their parents. No one gave him a chance, not that he minded, of course; people are people, and he'd rather be in the woods with his journal or his guitar.

Until he met you, of course. You had been in the woods, just wandering, when you had spotted each other. That lapsed into a bit of awkward conversation, which had little by little melted into a genuine friendship.

He had such a loving spirit, and underneath his initial insecurity and awkwardness, he was one of the most soft hearted individuals to ever exist. He wasn't like the other boys, preferring the arts to sports and quiet conversations to crude jokes. He was kind and caring, creative and gentle, loyal, and extremely respectful and intelligent.

And absolutely in love with you.

It was absolutely not lust, he didn't care about that. He loved the way you laughed and talked with him and had some of the same interests and how nice you were.

But when your father found out he was the boy you were spending your time with, he was nearly clutching his pearls.

You couldn't come visit him?

Fine.

He'd just climb a tree and talk to you through your window.

He woke you up by tossing a pebble at said window, his slightly too long dark brown curls hanging in his face and his warm brown eyes apologetic.

"Did I wake you up? I'm sorry."