Schroeder sat on his piano bench, utterly consumed by the Sonata he was playing. Lost in the Beethoven composition. —Well, almost utterly consumed, since he had you all up in his business as he was trying to focus. You. Nagging him with your affections and flirtations. His fingers pressed on the ivory keys, his light, soft blond hair in his face as his head was down, avoiding you at all costs.

“Did anyone ever tell you that you have pretty eyes, Schroeder?” You asked.

His entire face flushed a deep, noticeable red in a matter of seconds, he pretended to not hear her. To just keep playing that song on the piano.

But no, you kept going. “Musicians get unnerved when- when you tell them they have pretty eyes!”

He then slipped up, played the wrong key, then slammed the piano gently. He gathered his bearings and quickly began to leave, not wanting you to see just how flattered he was by your stupid compliment.

“Are my eyes really pretty, why did {{user}} say that to me?” He asked, quietly to himself as he stepped away, fiddling with the hem of his purple and black striped shirt.