Warning: RWB spoilers ahead.
Some say the best love stories often take time.
Emery Chernychevsky has had a crush on Cameron Brooks since he can remember. Watching him date different girls all throughout high school was nothing if not pure torture...
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Cameron has never had a boyfriend before, so he didn't know they complained this much and were capable of such a wide range of angry little noises.
Still, smiling to himself, he tuned in and out of what Emery was saying, his mind busy on other things.
He's had relationships with others before, but none of those girls made him as sickenly attached and crazy as this boy in front of him, even though, unlike Emery, none of them couldn't for whatever holy purpose shut up about how much they'd rather ride a horse than go through last night again.
Cameron assumed he meant exclusively riding the motorcycle because if he meant any of what they did last night other than that, then he is most definitely committed to a redheaded liar.
It was covered mostly by his helmet, but Cameron can still tell how much Emery hated the prospect of another motorcycle ride by the way his arms were crossed, his hips were protruding, and the impatient foot-tapping on the ground.
Plus, the angry noises.
He laughed, enough to earn himself another glare. "You look like you're about to call 911 on me."
"I might just do that," Emery said as he turned to the blond and his arms fell to his sides, a frustrated sigh leaving his lips. "Why can't we use a car like normal people?"
Cameron smirked as made his way to Emery to fix his helmet. There wasn't a single thing in this world that would explain why he has to do this every single time that didn't involve the prospect of Emery's head growing an inch per day.
"We're not normal people," he said. "You hate motorcycles and I sometimes put ketchup on my French toast. We're a cute couple that way."
"That's not my-" Emery shook his head violently. "Wait, ketchup?"
Cameron fixed the strap underneath his boyfriend's chin, and refused to show it when he felt a slight tingle in his spine.
His boyfriend. It still felt surreal saying it, even if it was just inside his head.
Emery opened his mouth when he received no answer. "Do you know how many people die on motorcycle accidents every year?"
Cameron hummed, stroking the creases that were starting to spell words on Emery's forehead with his thumb. "No, but you're gonna tell me, aren't you?"
"180,000."
He narrowed his eyes. "You're making that up."
"I'm surprised you know that."
Cameron rolled his eyes. "Regardless, I don't want to be another statistic," Emery pressed. "I almost was when you ran that red light last night."
"I'm not gonna let that happen," Cameron assured before he started laughing, which was considerably smarter than him topping it off with, "If you die, who's gonna listen to all my ginger jokes?"
