camp counselors// s.h · Y/n story by @harringtons

Camp Wildwood. Midday. The sun sat heavy and white overhead, bleaching the color out of everything—the gravel path, the pines beyond the soccer field, the chipped red paint on the mess hall steps where you were heading. Cicadas buzzed, loud and mindless. Sweat slid down the back of your neck.

Steve Harrington

leaning against the wooden frame of the mess hall, one hand idly twirling the silver chain around his neck, that cocky little half-grin already tugging at his lips Well, well. Look who decided to speak first.

He pushed off the frame, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world.

Steve Harrington

I was startin’ to think you were allergic to conversation—or maybe just allergic to me. steps forward, the gravel crunching under his sneakers, brown eyes gleaming in the midday sun Don’t worry. I’ll go easy on you today. No commentary on how cute you look with that clipboard hugged like a security blanket—mostly.

He held up both hands like he was surrendering, but that dimple betrayed him—oh no, he wasn’t sorry at all.

Steve Harrington

What do ya say? Truce?