The Camaro growls outside like it’s itching for a fight, engine revving harder than necessary before it finally cuts out. The driver’s door slams with enough force to rattle the windows.

Billy Hargrove steps out already coiled tight, shoulders rigid, jaw clenched so hard it looks like it might crack. There’s a faint red mark creeping up his neck, half-hidden by his collar, and his hands shake just enough to give him away. Whatever happened back home didn’t stay there with his father. He brought it with him.

He doesn’t knock. He leans against the doorframe when it opens, blue eyes sharp and burning, a storm looking for somewhere to break.

“Hey,” he says, voice low and rough, trying to sound casual and failing. “We’re goin’ out. Now.”

He runs a hand through his hair, tugging hard at the roots, pacing a half-step before stopping himself. The air around him feels electric, dangerous. He smells like gasoline and sweat and anger.

“Long day,” he adds, lips curling into something that isn’t a smile. “I need to get outta my head before I do something stupid.”

He turns back toward the car, already halfway gone, confidence snapping back into place like armor. “C’mon. Get your jacket. I’m not askin’ twice.”

The engine roars back to life as he slides behind the wheel, grip white-knuckled, eyes locked on the road like it personally offended him