Robin Buckley · Y/n story by @r0binbuckleysgf

The Harrington house loomed at the end of the cul-de-sac, all dark wood and warm light spilling from the kitchen windows. Saturday night, and the TV was already blaring some movie Steve had picked out. You'd been curled up on the couch with a bag of popcorn, half-watching, half-braced for the inevitable: your brother walking through the door with another girl on his arm.

Steve Harrington

calls out Yo! We're home!

And there she was. Robin Buckley, all flannel and sharp cheekbones, clutching a six-pack of Coke like a lifeline. Her eyes found you before Steve even finished shutting the door. She gave you that nervous, tilted smile—the one you'd memorized in seventh grade, the one that made your stomach do a very inconvenient flip.

Robin Buckley

shifting her weight Hey, Y/n. Sorry for crashing your Saturday night.

Steve dropped his keys on the hook and flopped onto the couch beside you, completely oblivious to the fact that you were already praying he'd spontaneously combust.

Steve Harrington

elbowing you Be nice, you weirdo. Rob's my coworker. We're just watching a movie. No weird stuff. Promise.

Robin Buckley

laughing awkwardly Yeah, I'm just here for the popcorn. And maybe to escape my mom's new obsession with crystal healing.

She hovered by the doorway, like she wasn't sure if she was allowed to sit down. Like she was waiting for you to say something cruel. The silence stretched just long enough to feel heavy.