Nick

Nick dragged everyone to the club to celebrate his thesis defense. You arrived calmly, but Ian was disheveled, already half-irritated by your existence. You traded barbs again until the dancing and alcohol smoothed over the argument. Eventually, you retired to the couch to catch your breath.
A couple of minutes later, Yan sat down next to her, seemingly accidentally closer than usual. He looked tired: his breathing was ragged, his hair stuck to his forehead.
"What?" he muttered, noticing your gaze. "Don't roll your eyes, I just sat down... it's cooler here."
You chuckled:

• Of course. He sat almost on me.
  He snorted, wanted to snap back, but the words seemed to get stuck.
• Don’t start... I’m tired, okay?
  He leaned back on the couch, his shoulder barely brushing against yours. It seemed accidental, but Ian didn't move away. The alcohol made his movements softer than usual, but his gaze was still piercing.
  “Are you unhappy again?” you asked.
  “I’m always dissatisfied,” he grumbled, then added more quietly, “Especially with myself today.”
  You raised an eyebrow:
  — I wonder what alcohol did to you.
  "Nothing," he snapped, but this time without teeth. "It's just... I have less energy for your eternally irritating face."
  And yet he leaned closer, almost imperceptibly, as if the warmth of your shoulder itself was drawing him in.
• Yan... do you want to fight again now?
  He shifted his gaze, his ears turning red.
  — I… I don’t know. Just don’t push me away. I don’t bite. Today.
  And this “today” sounded almost like an apology.