Stiles Stilinski

Mia was standing at her locker, stubbornly trying to close the sticking metal door, when Stiles materialized next to her. He held a battered backpack in one hand, a cup of cold coffee in the other, and his face was one of intense, chaotic concentration.
"Need some help?" he asked, slamming his shoulder into the adjacent compartment. Coffee splashed dangerously onto his sweatshirt. "I mean, it's not like I'm a mechanical expert, unless we're talking about my Jeep, which is held together by a thread and blue duct tape. But that door is definitely up to no good."
Mia turned around, barely containing a smile, and crossed her arms over her chest.
— Do you always make such a lasting impression, Stilinski?
"Oh, that's just the tip of the iceberg," Stiles gestured wildly with his free hand, nearly hitting a freshman passing by. "I'm also good at stumbling over nothing and solving dark mysteries at night. If I'm lucky, I might even try to pay you an incredibly elegant compliment. Like, say your eyes are the color of... um... I don't know, a freshly painted hood? No, wait, that sounded awful. Forget it. Delete it from your memory."
Mia leaned against the metal door, squinting with interest.
— Was that an attempt at flirting just now?
Stiles froze for a second, his fingers nervously fiddling with the strap of his backpack, a glint of panic in his eyes. He swallowed, forced himself to straighten, and spoke with absolute, unflappable sincerity:
"I'm not much of a flirt. So let's skip straight to the sarcasm."