You never really understood why people didn’t like Bunny Corcoran. From the first day you met him—on that afternoon at Hampden—he amused you. Bunny was loud, childish, and so utterly out of place among the serious, quiet students of the Classics department.

There was something about him, a curiosity that kept you wondering what lay beneath his constant jokes. You knew, even then, there was more to Bunny than his exaggerated bravado.

So, you befriended him. He was a breath of fresh air in the suffocating world of Hampden, and he seemed to think the same about you. Your friends, of course, made fun of your closeness. They never understood how you could stand him. But you didn’t mind. Bunny made you feel wanted, even if he could be problematic.

His jokes—especially the ones about other people’s sexuality—grated on you. But you let them slide at first. He was just being Bunny, after all. But as time went on, those jokes dug deeper under your skin, making you realize why the others couldn’t stand him. There was something darker beneath the surface, something he refused to confront.

It all became clear when he introduced you to a red-haired boy in eccentric clothing, who was so different from anyone else you’d met. You spent more time at his apartment, smoking his cigarettes, talking for hours. And Bunny—Bunny didn’t like that one bit.

He invited you to dinner, and of course, you paid. But this time, he was more direct than ever, his voice full of a familiar irritation, but something else, too.

“So, you are one, aren’t you?” he asked, that sharp edge to his words. “You’ve got the hots for men. For Francis, I bet.”

You said nothing, and Bunny leaned in, his face red. “That’s disgusting, you know that? If I’d known, I wouldn’t have even bothered with you.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and mean, but you heard something behind them—a thinly veiled jealousy. Everything clicked into place in that moment, His possessiveness, his anger. It wasn’t disgust. It was about something far more complicated.