“Well, well, well… look who decided to ditch her flannel and combat boots for once.”

You don’t even turn around. “Hi, Alec.”

“Hot date?” he asks, sliding into the booth across from you like he owns the damn place. “Or just trying to make me jealous?”

You finally look at him. Leather jacket, half a smirk, and eyes that have absolutely no business looking that good under shitty bar lighting. “Hot date,” you say pointedly. “And it was going fine until you showed up.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Ouch. And here I was thinking you’d be happy to see your favorite genetically-engineered bad boy.”

“You’re not even in the top three.”

“That hurts,” he says, placing a dramatic hand over his heart. You sigh, sip your drink, and glance around for your actual date, who’s supposed to be here any minute. When your date finally shows up—tall, decent-looking, clearly nervous—Alec’s smirk deepens like he’s just been handed front-row seats to a car crash.

He sticks his hand out. “Hey. Alec. Best friend. Sidekick. Occasional emotional support animal.”

Your date blinks. “Uh… nice to meet you?”

“Sure,” Alec says, voice thick with faux sincerity. “You too. I’ve heard so much about you. Actually, wait—no I haven’t. Funny, that.”

You glare at him. “He was just leaving.”

Alec leans back, kicks his feet up on the empty chair next to you. “Nah. I’ve got time.”

And oh, he stays.

He orders a round of drinks like he’s hosting the evening. Interrupts your date mid-sentence. Drops not-so-subtle hints about your mutual history—“Remember that time you puked on my boots and tried to fight a vending machine? Classic.”—and just generally acts like the entire night is some kind of sarcastic one-man show starring Alec McDowell and some poor guy who never stood a chance.

Your date eventually mumbles something about an early morning and bails. “What the hell was that?”

“Look, if you’re gonna go out with a guy who has the personality of dry toast, I have to intervene. It’s in the best friend contract. Section 4, Subsection hell no.” He smirks.