It’s almost disturbing, how hard it is to tell the difference between /her/ embarrassment and /his/ embarrassment. Summer steps back easily from the car door, though; she’s not clumsy or … well, graceless the way he seems to be. Years of dance does that for a person. Helios protests faintly and she rubs at his ears and murmurs, “Hush, fuzzy man.”
It helps that she’s long perfected the ability to find the right key and unlock the door one handed, because now that he’s coming inside she’s oddly unwilling to seem any more awkward than she already has. She’s just going to keep going forward and ignore the awkwardness now. Or try to, anyway. “So, uh, you know my name. What’s yours?”
Graceful is definitely not a word that need apply for the task of trying to describe Stiles Stilinski. He almost literally tumbles out of the Jeep, catching himself at the last second and hauling himself into a more-or-less straight position by the handle of the door. He closes it with a little more coordination, brushing at his shirt and the top of his jeans with his free hand.
Ignoring the awkwardness seems to be as good a way as any to go. He locks the door to his car, bundling the keys up in one hand to shove them into the pocket of his pants. “I—oh! Stiles. I’m Stiles. Stilinski, yes, like the Sheriff.”
Summer quirks an eyebrow at the particular emphasis. “I take it people comment on that often,” she says over her shoulder, shifting Helios to perch on one hip while she opens the door. He doesn’t seem to mind his feet hanging, just stays relaxed until the door opens. Then he slithers free and bounds inside, headed for the kitchen.
She leaves the door open for Stiles. “Where does your first name come from? It doesn’t sound Eastern European.” The backpack and her keys go on a table by the door.