the art of hating · Y/n story by @kissmeimfading

The November air cut through Hawkins like a blade, sharp and restless, carrying the smell of wet leaves and gasoline from the lot outside the Hawkins High gymnasium.

Robin Buckley

leaning against the wall beside you, arms crossed I swear, if one more person asks me if I’m going to the Snow Ball, I’m going to lose it. It’s November. In, like, a year.

Steve Harrington

from somewhere behind you, voice a little too loud Hey, Buckley, you telling ghost stories again? ‘Cause you’ve got that look—like you just saw a history book and it scared you.

Steve Harrington sauntered into view, letterman jacket slung over one shoulder like a cape, hair—obviously—perfect. He had that easy grin on his face, the one that used to make half the school swoon and the other half roll their eyes.

Robin Buckley

deadpan Wow. Comedy gold. You should take that on the road. Far away from here.

Steve Harrington

grins, then turns to you And Henderson’s sister. Look, I’m not going to pretend I’m thrilled to see you, but I’ve got a thing. A thing-thing. And I need someone who’s not gonna freak out.

He held your gaze, that confident smirk flickering just slightly—like he was waiting for you to take the bait or tell him to get lost.