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Summary
“Oh come now, I didn't mean to bore you,” he drawled. “Were you hoping for more of a show?”
He was standing squared, the towel slung low on his hips. His hair dripped streams down the valleys of his neck, and though his eyes did not quite know where to seek out her own, skidding blindly upon the air above her head, they shone with a familiar fervor. It was a look she knew well from the quidditch pitch: When the rushing wind whispered he’s right there behind you, and she would risk a glance over her shoulder, meet icy grey, so close, always so unexpectedly close, a broomlength away at most, and the chill of his eyes and the thrill of the chase would send her muscles to shivering, and it would be all she could do just to hold on tight and fly faster.