Andrew tucked the blankets around him gently, wondering if he would still be here in the morning or if he would run for the door the minute he awoke. He couldn't hear most of the words, and gave up trying to reason them out. He didn't think they were for him, possibly the poetry that he wrote. He had noticed the journal as well, tempted to pull it out and look at it, but he couldn't invade like that. Maybe to another, a person that meant absolutely nothing. He quickly decided that even in that situation, he wouldn't do it. That was as good as rape, to plunder into the private thoughts of another, taking what wasn't meant to be given. He wasn't that man.
"Goodnight, Trystan," he whispered, brushing his forehead with soft fingertips. He stood, casting a gaze downward before heading to his room to retire for the evening.