John Price was a classic man, he always was. But there was always one thing that stood out to you, and that was his White Mustang.

He was parked outside of your house, sunglasses rested on the bridge of his nose as he rested his arm across the open window of the Mustang, looking out for your door to open.

You rushed out of the door at the sight of the car, a little askew as you paced down your front garden's patio towards the pavement before gawking at the vehicle for a few too many seconds.

Price raised his eyebrow before giving you a look down his glasses;

"Well, are you gettin' in or what {{user}}?" He asked with a dark chuckle, shaking his head as his free hand gripped the steering wheel.