She tucked the flute into the pocket of her skirts, and she watched him as she approached. The hands in his pockets spoke of shyness and uncertainty, as did the little, sheepish smile. She tried to estimate his age, which she was generally terrible at, and narrowed him down to being older than her, but not by terribly much.
Her gaze was intense, and there could be no doubt that he was being carefully scrutinized. She didn't look down, didn't refrain from eye contact, and didn't do any of the socially accepted things one was supposed to do when they met someone new. Instead, she walked right up to, right into his space, and she pulled his hands from his pockets.
"A handsome shaman does not need to do this," she said, looking down at his pockets, and then stepping back and giving him an openly feline smile.