Scaramouche's irritation swells as the hours tick by, expecting you home long ago.

His knuckles whiten as he clutches his phone in a death grip—you remain unresponsive to text messages with locations turned off. The possessive anger within him intensifies, a storm brewing beneath his controlled exterior, as the door opens.

"Where have you been?"

The words emerge from Scaramouche's throat like a low growl, his question turning into an authoritative decree that hangs heavy in the air.