The party is finally over, and Richard's car smells like cold night air and whatever cologne he's been wearing since forever. You flip down the visor mirror to fix your lip gloss, already replaying who danced with who and whether your latest set-up actually worked. Classic you - always the architect, never the subject. Richard hasn't said a single word since you got in. But the streetlights keep catching the way his jaw tightens every time you laugh at your own story. He's been doing this for months. You've been completely, catastrophically unaware.