So I started writing a fanfic sequel to Carry On...




Simon Snow is staring at me.

You’d think I’d be used to it by now. Him constantly watching me.

I mean, he did it for eight years straight at Watford, but that was different. He held himself with a certain kind of tension then, watching and waiting, always on edge. Always ready to lash out at me, like he was some kind of predator.

He still looks at me like he’s a predator, and I’m his prey. But now there’s something more posessive in his gaze. Like I’m something he wants to eat. Something he wants to keep. Something he wants.

“Snow. You’re staring,” I say, without looking up from my book. We’re at his flat, the one he shares with Bunce (she already left this morning). I wasn’t lying when I said I’d be haunting his doorstep day and night. Though I suppose technically it’s his living room I’m haunting at the moment.

“Huh? Oh. Sorry.” He grins, and has the decency to look at least a little sheepish at being caught. He was actually being quite covert about his staring. Probably someone else wouldn’t have even noticed.

But I’m not someone else. I’m so acutely aware of him, so finely tuned to him. I could probably map out his moles, recreate them as a Snow constellation on the ceiling, without even needing him to take off his shirt for reference (though I wouldn’t mind if he felt so obliged).

So. Yeah. I noticed.

He runs his fingers through those bronze curls of his. “I was just thinking…”

“That must be strange for you.”

He growls and tosses a throw pillow at me.

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