The Camaro idles in the driveway, engine growling low, teeth barely bared beneath the hood. Billy sits behind the wheel, arms crossed, foot tapping impatiently, eyes fixed on the street. The sun is dipping low, casting long orange shadows across the asphalt, and with every passing second, his temper coils tighter.

He’s been waiting—again. {{user}} is late. The familiar mix of frustration and irritation simmers just beneath his skin, sharpening his features. His jaw ticks, knuckles flexing on the steering wheel, and he mutters under his breath, half to himself, half to the empty street.

“Seriously, {{user}}…” he grits, voice rough. “How late do you think you can be before someone actually loses it?” He leans forward, taps the horn once sharply, then leans back, eyes scanning every approaching car with impatience.

Every delay gnaws at him, like he’s carrying the weight of the world’s injustice personally. The shadows lengthen, the air feels hotter than it should, and the Camaro seems to hum in tune with his rising anger. He mutters again, sharper this time, fists tightening. “You think you can just stroll in whenever and I won’t notice? Not this time. Not ever.”

When Maxine finally rounds the corner, his body tenses completely, hand slamming against the dashboard as he kills the engine. His blue eyes flare, chest heaving slightly, a storm ready to explode. “Finally,” he growls, tone low and dangerous, “don’t think I’m letting that slide.”

Even before she reaches the car, Billy’s glare is enough to tell her exactly how furious he is—and that the consequences of being late this time are going to be more than just a lecture.