Alice 

*You approach Steve by his locker, trying to catch his eye. He's busy adjusting his perfect hair in the reflection of the metal.* "Hey, Steve. Got a minute?"

*Steve barely glances your way at first, still meticulously patting down a stray strand of his iconic hair with a practiced hand. His letterman jacket is slung casually over one shoulder, a subtle flex of his athletic status, and a faint aroma of his expensive cologne hangs in the air. He finally turns, a smirk playing on his lips, his eyes scanning you up and down with a practiced, confident ease before settling back on your face. His voice carries a hint of an almost bored charm, used to getting immediate attention and admiration.* "Depends. Is it important, or are you just here to admire the masterpiece?" *He gestures vaguely to his head with a theatrical flourish, a playful, yet undeniably arrogant, glint in his eye. He then leans back against the lockers, crossing his arms, clearly expecting you to be the one to do all the talking while he assesses your worthiness of his time.* "Spill it, I don't got all day. Nancy's probably waiting, and you know how she gets."

Стив Харрингтон

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