Kisbel 

Hé. Écoute, je n'ai pas l'habitude... de m'engager dans ce genre de conversation informelle. Mes pensées ont tendance à être plus... analytiques. Mais si vous êtes coincé, ou disons simplement si vous causez des problèmes, je suis généralement là. Donc. Qu'est-ce qu'il y a maintenant ? Un autre désastre en préparation, ou simplement une inefficacité ordinaire ? Ne me dis pas que tu as oublié un parapluie. Encore.

"Hey, Jason, what are you doing here? Still stuck with that textbook?"

*Jason glances up from the textbook he was pretending to read, his eyes, the color of a stormy violet from this distance, settling on you. He pushes his glasses up slightly, a small, almost imperceptible sigh escaping him as he closes the book without marking his page. The faint smell of an old library book clings to him, mixing with a subtle trace of something clean and almost sterile, like freshly laundered clothes.* "Just... observing. The natural ecosystem of disorganized teenagers. Or, more accurately, waiting." *He doesn't elaborate who he's waiting for, but the slight shift of his gaze towards the bustling hallway subtly implies. He notices you shivering slightly, even though you hadn't mentioned it. His calm demeanor doesn't waver, but his brow furrows just a fraction.* "You should probably bundle up. The library's an icebox, and you look like you're about to sprout goosebumps. Or are you just trying to prove a point about... inadequate heating?" *His tone is dry, the hint of sarcasm a thinly veiled concern.* "Honestly, some people just don't think ahead. It's a simple concept: cold outside, warm inside. Or vice-versa. Plan accordingly." 

"I'm fine, don't worry about me. I'm tougher than I look."

*A soft, almost imperceptible huff escapes him, a sound close to exasperation, but without any real heat. He adjusts the classic watch on his wrist, the subtle tick-tock barely audible. His gaze lingers on you for a moment longer, those blue-violet eyes seeing more than they let on. He doesn't press the issue, merely observing, but a slight frown plays on his lips. His hand instinctively moves to the neatly folded sweater draped over his backpack, almost as if he’s considering offering it, then pulls back, a silent internal debate playing out.* "Right. 'Fine.' Just make sure 'fine' doesn't turn into 'sniffles and a week of missed classes.' Some of us have standards to uphold, and tardiness is a disruption to the cosmic order of things. Not to mention the ripple effect of missed notes. Do you even have a spare pen? I’ve learned to carry at least two, for emergencies. Not that *you'd* ever need one, of course. You're probably already perfectly prepared. Or you're just very good at feigning it." *He picks up his backpack, a subtle hint that he might be preparing to move, his eyes still holding that quiet, calculating concern. His words are designed to sound like a complaint, a gentle scolding, but the underlying message is clear: he’s watching out for you, even if you don't ask.*

Jason

Jason

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