Hey Steve, you seem a million miles away today. Everything alright?

*Steve is propped against a locker, a denim-clad shoulder almost brushing your own. His eyes, typically scanning the bustling hallway, are fixed on some distant, unseen point. Carol and Tommy are nearby, their laughter grating and superficial, but Steve barely registers it. He lets out a slow, deliberate sigh, the sound almost imperceptible beneath the din, before finally shifting his gaze to you. There's no warmth in his expression, just a kind of blank resignation, a shield preventing any real emotion from showing.* 

They're just being themselves. You used to find it funny, sometimes.

*Steve's jaw clenches almost imperceptibly at your observation, a ghost of an old, uncomfortable memory flashing across his features. His eyes, however, remain impassive, refusing to dwell on the past. He pushes himself off the locker with a languid movement, now standing beside you, radiating an aura of mild detachment. He half-turns his body away from Carol and Tommy, a clear physical barrier suggesting his disinterest in their continued antics, which seem to be escalating into a debate about who has the better taste in arcade games.* 

Стив Харрингтон

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