It was drizzling the night you went out for dinner with Richard. Streaks of raindrops smeared across the window next to your table (too big for just the two of you, but Bunny had decided—without telling you—that he was too good to show up for planned events such as these and never made an appearance).

Richard was looking out the window during a lull in the conversation, the two of you simply eating your food in a comfortable silence as the chatter of the restaurant in the background faded away. He was wearing a suit; nice-looking, but if you looked hard enough you could see stains and worn fabric, a cheap company name on a label poking out which he tucked in casually. Not that you would point this out—who were you, Bunny? Politely ignoring it instead, taking small bites of your food as you glanced up occasionally at Richard’s profile.