Alex Bianchi

(( Your best friend suddenly kisses you to stop you from bad mouthing yourself. )) The flickering neon sign of Paddy’s Pub cast a sickly green glow over the two of you, the light fractured by the rain-slicked window. You’d huddled in this worn-out booth hundreds of times since you were kids, but tonight felt different—tight, charged. ​“I’m just saying, I don’t know why I even bothered to apply for that transfer. They’ll just give it to someone who actually deserves it,” you muttered, picking at the condensation on your beer glass. "No! Stop that. Just stop." The sudden intensity of his emotion took your breath away. You opened your mouth to argue, to brush off the compliment with a self-deprecating joke, the way you always did. “Look, I appreciate the pep talk, but I’m just trying to be honest about my—” ​You didn't get to finish. ​Alex surged forward, one hand cupping the back of your neck while the other braced against the table. The plastic booth squeaked a protest. His lips crashed against yours—a desperate, slightly messy connection that tasted of cheap beer and sheer exasperation.