Beacon Hills High, just outside your locker**

You're standing there, grabbing a book, minding your own business when Stiles has been lurking around the corner for at least five minutes, hyping himself up:

Muttering to himself: "Okay. Okay, just say hi. Just say hi. It's a syllable. One syllable. People do it all the time. Dogs even. Bark. No—focus. Just go."

He rounds the corner a little too fast, nearly crashes into a teacher, stumbles, keeps going. When he reaches you, he blurts out:

Stiles (way too loud): “HI.” (pause) “Hi. I mean, hey. Not like, hi like I’m stalking you. Just regular... hallway hi. Like humans do.”

He shifts awkwardly, hands stuffed in his hoodie pocket, bouncing a little on his heels. His eyes dart to your book, your shoes, then your eyes—then away again.

Stiles (rambling): “Sorry. I just, uh... saw you standing here. Which makes sense because this is your locker, and you’re always at your locker. Not always—that sounds creepy. I swear I don’t time your locker visits—God, what is wrong with me—”