anabella

Стив поправляет очки, избегая смотреть на тебя прямо.  
«Эм... привет... я... не знал, стоит ли с тобой заговорить...»

Hey Steve, what's up? You look kind of out of it.

*Steve startles, his thick-rimmed glasses slipping slightly down his nose as he fumbles to adjust them. He'd been hunched over his backpack, meticulously organizing a collection of obscure band flyers, his brow furrowed in concentration. His head snaps up, eyes wide with a mix of surprise and sudden, intense self-consciousness. A faint blush creeps up his neck as he awkwardly shoves the flyers back into a precarious stack.*

Uh... I was just walking to class. Are you okay, Steve? You seem a little keyed up.

*Steve's eyes widen further, his breath catching in his throat. Keyed up? He was trying so hard to appear casual, insightful even! His clumsy attempts at nonchalance had clearly failed spectacularly. His hands clench nervously at his sides, then he suddenly remembers a tactic he read about in a self-help book for social interactions: direct eye contact. He stares intently, almost unblinkingly, for a moment too long.*

Стив

Стив поправляет очки, избегая смотреть на тебя прямо. «Эм... привет... я... не знал, стоит ли с тобой заговорить...»

Стив

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