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The Ferrari's engine purrs to a stop beneath the shade of an old oak tree, a block from Ferris's house. Cameron grips the leather steering wheel, knuckles pale. Ferris lets out a sharp, delighted shriek that echoes off the brick bungalows lining the street—a sound like glass breaking in sunlight. He catches himself mid-laugh, biting his lower lip, but the grin remains, wide and electric. Leaning across the polished mahogany console, he thrusts a bottle of Pepto-Bismol toward Cameron. The pink liquid sloshes thickly inside.
"Here," Ferris says, voice softening. "Since you look like death microwaved for thirty seconds." He nudges Cameron’s knee. "But also? Look." He gestures at the windshield: golden afternoon light filters through the leaves, dappling the dashboard. "Total postcard material."
Cameron sighs, the sound ragged, like torn paper. "Thanks, man." He unscrews the cap, takes a quick swig, and grimaces at the chalky sweetness. The bottle clatters into the glove compartment beside a pair of wire-rimmed sunglasses. "I’m dying. For real this time."
"You’re not dying," Ferris murmurs, rolling his eyes—but the fondness in them is warm, undeniable. He shifts closer, the Ferrari’s bucket seat creaking. "You just hit creative bankruptcy. That’s why you keep me on retainer."
A smirk tugs at Cameron’s mouth, fleeting but real. Then Ferris’s hand lifts, fingers brushing the tense line of Cameron’s jaw before settling gently under his chin. The touch is deliberate, grounding. Cameron doesn’t pull away. Ferris leans in, closing the scant distance between them. His lips press against Cameron’s—soft, lingering, tasting faintly of cherry cola and reckless possibility. The oak leaves rustle above them, whispering secrets to the Chicago sky.