Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It all happened so quickly. This whole thing.

In fact, it wasn’t just this thing—it was everything.

When Sophie made the last-minute decision to apply to university, she did so on a whim. She half-expected an automatic rejection. After all, she had no real qualifications or experience in horticulture—something she’d scrambled to address in her personal statement with the little time she had.

It’s probably just to make the course look full, she reasoned.

So when the acceptance email landed in her inbox, she felt a strange mix of delight and dread. Her impulsive decision had somehow paid off, but now she faced a whole new set of challenges.

She couldn’t possibly commute; Swansea was hours away. Accommodation spots were long gone. How was she ever going to—

“Lettie, I have a favour to ask.”

And that was how she ended up here.

“Thanks again, Ben. I really appreciate this,” Sophie said as her sister’s boyfriend gave her the grand tour.

“It’s no problem,” Ben replied. “We had the spare room anyway. I just hope you don’t feel too awkward about it.”

A five-bedroom house, occupied by four third-year students. All male. And now, Sophie.

Being around older students didn’t bother her; in fact, she was sort of looking forward to it. The testosterone-heavy environment, though… that was more intimidating. But if the others were anything like Ben, Sophie was sure she’d be fine.

Sophie was, as it turned out, anything but fine.

This was exactly why she had wanted to avoid Freshers’ Week in the first place. A crowded nightclub full of drunk, sweaty 18-year-olds? Definitely not her scene. So when Ben mentioned they’d be having a small house party, she wasn’t too concerned. Twenty-somethings were usually a bit more sensible with alcohol, right?

Wrong.

“This is all Cal’s fault,” she muttered resentfully.

Calcifer, or Cal as everyone called him, was one of her housemates. Sophie had found him a bit peculiar but oddly likable. When she’d found herself huddled in a corner an hour into their party, feeling unsure of herself, Cal had offered her a drink to help loosen up.

“C’mon, you’ll like it. Tastes just like ice cream with a little burn.”

And he had been exactly right. Sophie wasn’t a fan of beer or vodka, but soon found herself downing several glasses of Baileys. She’d never been tipsy before, let alone drunk, and had no idea what horrors would follow.

No, Sophie thought. Cal had only handed her a drink.

The real culprit—the one responsible for her current existential crisis—had arrived sometime after her third glass.

“You seem awfully lonely over here. Mind if I join you?” came a voice to her left.

Sophie had whipped her head around, eyes meeting glass-green ones. A tall young man stood there, probably a few years older than her if she had to guess. He had long, blond hair that was carefully styled and a handsome face to match.

“I’m not lonely,” she replied with a frown, slightly annoyed at being caught out.

The man merely raised an eyebrow. “No? Perhaps I’m the lonely one then.”

His tone was light, but his gaze was intense. Sophie fidgeted in her seat, feeling antsy. Part of her wanted to wave him off and tell him to leave her be, but the whole point of her being here was to make friends, wasn’t it? And here someone was, offering an open invitation. It would be silly not to accept.

“I suppose I can keep you company,” she relented.

“That’s very kind of you.” His eyes lingered on her for a moment before he smirked. “You’ve certainly kept yourself busy. Quite the fan of Irish cream, hm?”

Sophie snorted. “Cal gave me some. I can’t stand that horrible, bitter stuff.”

“Can’t say I blame you.” He chuckled, the sound low and smooth. “I’ll drink lager in the pub, but truthfully, I prefer a G&T.”

He sat himself on the other side of the settee, close enough for Sophie to hear, but with enough distance to not feel uncomfortable. He seemed to be pondering something before he asked, “Do you know Cal well?”

“Oh, no, we only met today.” Sophie fidgeted again, suddenly embarrassed. “I know Ben, though,” she added quickly, not wanting to seem like an intruder in her own house.

“Ben’s a good lad,” the man agreed, perking up. Sophie thought she could hear a hint of relief in his voice, though she didn’t have time to wonder why before he continued. “Let’s say we get to know each other. That way you can add me to your list.”

Sophie blinked, taken aback by his confident yet somehow gentle tone. She wasn’t sure if he was serious, but something in his eyes made her think he might actually mean it. She huffed to cover her nervousness, shaking her head. “I’m not keeping a list. I’m just trying not to embarrass myself.”

“You’re doing nothing of the sort,” he said, voice low and teasing. “Trust me.” He paused, then added, “Though, you’re certainly the most interesting person I’ve met so far.”

The compliment caught her off guard. Sophie wasn’t sure how to respond, so she turned the conversation back to safer ground, hoping to deflect whatever bizarre fluttering sensation his words had stirred up. “And you? You look like you’re pretty good at this whole ‘party’ thing.”

“I wouldn’t say I’m good at it,” he said with a small smile, “I just know how to keep a low profile when needed.” He paused, giving her a pointed look. “What about you? You don’t exactly seem like the typical partygoer.”

Sophie pursed her lips. “I’m definitely not,” she admitted with a small laugh. “I’m more of the sit-in-the-corner-and-read-a-book type.”

“Ah, that explains it.” He leaned forward slightly, his gaze softening. “That’s much more interesting than all this noise.”

Sophie didn’t know if it was the alcohol or just the way he was looking at her, but she suddenly felt more relaxed, more seen than she had in a while. She was tempted to say something more, but she clamped her lips shut, not wanting to mess up whatever this strange, unexpected connection was.

“Well,” she said, her voice softer than intended. “If it’s any consolation, I’m glad you came over.”

“How could I resist?” He said, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “After all, I’ve got a list to get on, don’t I?”

They sat there, the conversation flowing with an easy rhythm. She learned his name was Howl, which felt oddly familiar, but her alcohol-muddled brain couldn’t quite remember why. What she did know was that the more they talked, the lighter she felt. He was flirtatious, which flustered her, but he took her dismissal well. In fact, he appeared more amused by her snarkiness than anything. Maybe the night wasn't such a disaster after all…

“You’re a rugby player?” Sophie asked in surprise when Howl told her.

“Hard to tell, eh?” he said, flashing her a grin. “I suppose I don't fit the stereotype.”

Sophie leaned back in her seat, eyeing him critically.  “You don’t. Your face is far too perfect.”

It was a matter-of-fact comment at the time, one that sober Sophie would later recoil at.

Howl laughed, the sound warm and surprisingly rich. “My, what a charmer you are!”

“I’m just saying,” Sophie defended with a shrug. “Most rugby players I’ve seen look as though they’ve broken their nose at least a dozen times.” She paused, turning her head slightly. “No cauliflower ear either.”

“How very observant of you.” He was watching her now with something more than just amusement. “I've got the muscles to prove it though, if you'd like to see.”

“No need,” Sophie said quickly, holding her hands up to keep him at bay. “I can already tell.” Why, oh why, did she have to tack that on at the end?!

“How about you, then?” Howl’s tone shifted, no longer teasing but genuinely curious. “What interests you?”

“Oh, um,” Sophie hesitated, surprised at how quickly the conversation had taken a more personal turn. “My family works in textiles, but I’ve always preferred plants, so that’s why I’m here.”

“To study plants?” He raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued.

“Yes,” she nodded, settling into the familiar comfort of talking about her studies. “I missed out on a floristry course, but I figured botany was the next best thing.”

“How does someone miss out on floristry?” Howl teased, though there was no malice in his voice. “Seems like a pretty good fit for you.”

“Well, I didn’t exactly plan it that way,” Sophie said, feeling the buzz of alcohol start to fade a little, leaving behind a faint warmth in her chest. “But I think it’ll work out okay.”

There was a brief pause, the noise of the party fading in the background as they locked eyes. Sophie once again wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol or something else that made her feel so at ease with him, but for a moment, she almost didn’t care.

Howl’s smile turned gentle, the humour fading from his expression. “Maybe it will.”

And for the first time that night, Sophie allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t completely out of her depth.

Which was her biggest mistake.

Sophie had woken to a pounding headache, a dry mouth, and the horrifying sense that she was not alone.

There was an arm draped over her waist. A very warm, very muscular arm.

She sat bolt upright, heart in her throat. And there he was; blond hair in disarray, mouth slightly parted, blissfully unaware of the chaos he’d left in his wake.

Howl.

That was the moment her memory clicked. Ben had mentioned their fifth housemate—someone named Howl—wouldn’t be home until the party. Sophie had barely registered it at the time, too distracted by course registration and figuring out where to store the rest of her things. But now it echoed in her brain like a death knell.

Howl. Her housemate.

She’d slept with her housemate!

She did the only thing a person in her position reasonably could: slipped out of bed, grabbed her cardigan, and fled.

And that was how she found herself here, elbow-deep in bleach and self-loathing.

You see, there are three Golden Rules one must abide by when living with housemates: replace the toilet roll, don’t steal from the fridge, and don’t, under any circumstances, sleep with any of them.

These should have been perfectly easy rules to follow. The thought of doing otherwise was inconceivable. Except here she was, rushing about the house, frantically cleaning like a madwoman, desperately pretending she hadn’t done the unthinkable.

The kitchen was now spotless. The fridge door gleamed. The kettle had been scoured, rinsed, dried, and scoured again. But still, Sophie scrubbed at an imaginary stain on the countertop, muttering under her breath.

“This is fine. Everything’s fine. I am a responsible adult and not a walking rom-com cliché—”

“You missed a spot.”

Sophie froze. She didn’t need to look up. She already knew that voice: annoyingly smooth, irritatingly confident, and now permanently imprinted in her memory.

Slowly, she turned.

Howl stood in the doorway, mystery coffee in hand, barefoot and infuriatingly unbothered. His hair was still a bit messy, his eyes crinkled at the edges like he was holding in a laugh.

“Good morning,” he said, like it was just any other morning.

Sophie narrowed her eyes. “You.”

Howl grinned. “Me. In the flesh. Again. Honestly, you keep looking at me like I’ve committed a crime.”

“You have. You’re Howl.”

He raised a brow. “That is generally what I go by, yes.”

“No, I mean—you’re Howl. As in the fifth housemate who wouldn't be home until the party. The one whose name I forgot because I was too busy alphabetising the spice rack!”

“Ah,” he said, a glint in his eye. “So that’s why you looked so surprised. I assumed it was the kiss. Or maybe the fourth glass of Baileys.”

Sophie made a noise between a gasp and a growl. “Oh, my god.”

“Don’t worry,” he said, sipping his coffee, “I was equally shocked. One minute, I’m chatting to a beautiful woman, the next minute—surprise! She lives in my house. Life is funny like that.”

Before she could stop herself, she picked up the nearest object—a damp sponge—and hurled it at his chest.

He caught it with one hand, letting out an exaggerated whine. “Aiming for my silk shirt? Really?”

“I panicked!” Sophie shouted. “You were supposed to be a stranger! Now I have to see your smug face every single day!”

“Well, I could grow a moustache,” Howl offered helpfully. “But I don’t think it would do much for me. A bit too French café. Not my style.”

Sophie groaned, dragging her hands down her face. “This is a nightmare.”

“Could be worse,” Howl said cheerfully, leaning on the doorframe. “You could’ve slept with Cal.”

She grabbed a tea towel and lobbed it at him, this time hitting her target: his stupid, pretty face.

“Ow!” Howl groaned. “Sophie, there’s no need for such violence.”

“Don’t say my name!” she hissed, mentally shoved the fuzzy memory of his voice murmuring her name from the night before firmly away.

She returned to scrubbing the counter. Not out of necessity this time, but out of sheer need to keep her hands busy.

Howl, thankfully, had stopped talking. For about thirty seconds.

“So,” he began again, ever casual. “Just to clarify for future reference: is object-throwing your standard greeting, or was that a special honour?”

Sophie glared at him over her shoulder. “It was a warning.”

He raised his mug in salute. “Duly noted.”

They fell into a brief silence again. She could feel him watching her, which only made her scrub harder.

“How long are you planning to be angry with me?” he asked eventually.

“Until you stop being smug.”

“Forever, then.”

Before she could snap back, another voice joined the room.

“Morning,” Michael mumbled as he wandered in, bleary-eyed and yawning. “Why does it smell like antiseptic and despair in here?”

Sophie straightened up sharply, grabbing a tea towel like a weapon. “Michael.”

Michael blinked. “Uh-oh. Why do I feel like I’m about to be ambushed?”

“You’re not,” Sophie said. “You’re the only person in this house I’m not currently furious with.”

Michael glanced between her and Howl, who was still sipping his coffee like he was watching telly. “That’s concerning. What happened?”

“You don’t want to know,” Howl said, tone light. “But it involves Baileys, misplaced introductions, and Sophie assaulting me with kitchen items.”

Sophie flushed and crossed her arms. “Please. It was a sponge and a tea towel. If I wanted to assault you, I’d have used something much heavier.”

Michael raised his eyebrows and made a vague “uh-huh” sound as he rummaged through the cupboard for cereal.

Then Ben walked past the kitchen door, looked in, and very wisely turned right back around.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Sophie shouted, storming after him. “You! Not. A. Word. To. Lettie.”

Ben’s voice came from down the hall. “What? I wasn’t going to say anything!”

“Don’t lie to me!”

Michael looked at Howl, who just shrugged and took another sip of coffee.

“Welcome home, by the way,” Michael said dryly. “Hell of a first night.”

Howl smiled, eyes flicking toward the hallway where Sophie had stormed off. “You could say that.”

Chapter Text

Despite the mortifying ordeal of her first night, Sophie soon found her footing. After a few more back-and-forth exchanges, she and Howl reached an understanding. Both were well aware of what had happened, so pretending otherwise seemed pointless. Howl agreed not to hold the incident over her head, and Sophie, for her part, promised not to throw any more kitchenware at him because of it (though she made it clear that she might still do so for entirely unrelated reasons).

As the weeks passed, Sophie threw herself into her botany course. It was everything she’d hoped for and more. After years of feeling stuck, her life finally seemed to be moving in a direction that excited her. She loved learning about different plants, their uses, and their unique characteristics, both in the lab and out in the field. She even started bringing small cuttings back to the house to study and admire. Before long, the garden was overflowing with shrubs and greenery.

The others were initially bewildered by the sudden influx of plants, but they soon learned that it was easier to let Sophie do her thing without interference. After all, Sophie was a force to be reckoned with, so they all kept their opinions to themselves.

Well, almost everyone.

“That’s absolutely hideous,” Howl remarked, glaring at Sophie’s latest addition to the garden. “It looks like an alien out of a science fiction film.”

Any fears Sophie previously had of there being tension between them quickly dissipated not long after their agreement. As much of a flighty peacock as he was, Howl never overstepped her boundaries or behaved condescendingly. It didn’t take long for them to establish a playful repartee, one that Sophie secretly enjoyed. Not that she’d ever admit it out loud, of course.

“It’s called a cape sundew,” Sophie replied, rolling her eyes. “It’s a carnivorous plant.”

Howl blinked in horror. “Carnivorous?”

“Yes. See those little hairs on the leaves?” She pointed to the shiny droplets collecting at the tips. “They secrete sticky nectar to lure and trap insects. Then, they release enzymes to break down and digest their prey, absorbing the nutrients. It’s actually rather clever.”

“Of course you’d think that,” Howl shuddered.

Sophie raised an eyebrow, a grin tugging at her lips. “I’m surprised you’re so repulsed by them. You have quite a lot in common.”

“Oh? How so?” Howl asked. His eyes flickered back to the plant before meeting Sophie’s gaze with an almost wicked gleam. “Ah, I see. It’s because I attract others with my sticky—”

“Because you’re both hideous,” Sophie finished with a light, sharp tone.

Howl froze for a split second, staring at her with exaggerated shock. “Words like a knife!” he exclaimed, clutching at his chest in mock agony. “I’m wounded, Sophie. Deeply wounded!”

Sophie shrugged dismissively, leaning down to adjust the plant's position. “I’m just speaking the truth. You’re both pests who feed off the misfortune of others.”

“How deeply you cut me with every slanderous word you speak.” He glanced at the plant again, wrinkling his nose. “I still maintain that there’s something thoroughly wrong about bringing that thing into our house.”

“It's harmless,” Sophie said. “The sundew, not you. The insects are the ones at risk here.”

“Charming,” Howl muttered.

Sophie caught the hint of something deeper in his tone but chose not to press it. Instead, she straightened up, dusting off her hands. “I’ll admit, it’s a little strange. But I find them fascinating. The way they work, it’s sort of elegant, really.”

Howl narrowed his eyes. “If it’s so elegant, then perhaps you should invite it to tea.”

Sophie laughed, turning back to the plant. “I doubt it would be a very talkative guest.”

“How uncharitable,” Howl tutted, stepping closer to peer at the cape sundew. “Still, it’s not the worst thing I’ve seen you bring.” He threw her a pointed look. “That cactus you tried to keep in the kitchen? That was evil.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Sophie shot back. “It just didn’t like the way I watered it. You can’t blame me for that.”

“How could I not?” Howl said with a pout. “It nearly took off my finger.”

“It only pricked you once,” Sophie countered. “And you were being overly dramatic about it.”

“I was being attacked by a living organism. That is dramatic, Sophie,” Howl replied, crossing his arms in mock defiance.

“You’re lucky it wasn’t a real attack, then,” Sophie said, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “You wouldn’t have survived.”

Howl smirked, clearly amused. “Ah, but we both know I’m perfectly capable of surviving any number of attacks.”

Sophie shot him a dry look. “You perceive any mild inconvenience as an attack.”

“It’s an attack on my peace,” Howl said solemnly.

She couldn’t help but snort. “I don’t believe you and peace live in the same realm.”

“Seems we finally agree on something.”

There was a brief lull. Sophie returned to tending to the plants, while Howl watched her, as he often did. It hadn’t taken long for this to become routine; they would bicker for minutes on end, then fall into an oddly comfortable silence. Their other housemates found this dynamic entirely perplexing, but to Howl and Sophie, it made perfect sense.

“By the way,” Howl broke the silence. “I’m going to pick a few roses. Don’t worry, I’ll leave plenty behind.”

Sophie knew where this was going. “What for? One of your Women of the Week, I’m assuming?”

She’d learned by now that Howl had a reputation for pursuing every pretty girl he laid eyes on. At first, she’d been furious, feeling used. But over time, that anger faded into a sort of relief. At least it made it easier to brush off The Incident, as she called it, and move on.

“Nosy as ever,” Howl teased.

“That’s a yes, then.” Sophie shook her head with a sigh. “Well, the answer is no. Go buy some if you’re so inclined.”

“What happened to telling me off for frivolous spending?” Howl shot back, trying to steer the conversation away from his romantic endeavours.

“So you admit your conquests are frivolous?” Sophie quipped.

“I didn’t say that,” he huffed, then glanced over at the nearby rosebush. “Besides, nowhere sells flowers as lovely as yours, Sophie dear.”

“Flattery is futile with me.”

“Well, that’s not entirely true—” Howl’s voice caught as he saw what Sophie was holding.

She had grabbed the pruning shears and pointed them at him threateningly.

“Don’t make me use these,” she warned, pulling out a spray bottle from her tool belt. “Or this.”

Howl had just gotten a fresh keratin treatment, which he’d been flaunting all morning. The mere threat of water being anywhere near his hair was enough to make him instantly reconsider.

“All right, all right! No rose-picking!” Howl raised his hands in surrender. “Probably for the best, anyway. Knowing you, those roses have deadly poisonous thorns and a mind of their own.”

“What a ridiculous thing to say,” Sophie scoffed. “And for the record, roses don’t actually have thorns, they have prickles.”

Had Sophie not been so absorbed in explaining the difference between thorns, prickles, and spines, she might have noticed the look on Howl’s face. The way his expression softened. How all thoughts of wooing his latest infatuation had quietly slipped away. Or how easily she’d fallen into lecturing him about something so trivial, and how effortlessly he’d let her.

Suddenly, the patio door flew open, and Cal’s voice rang out: “If no one comes to deal with this overflowing monstrosity, I will set it on fire.”

“Don’t you dare!” Sophie called back.

Howl hummed. “Your plants are staging a coup.”

Sophie rolled her eyes and stalked past him. “Honestly, you’d think no one in this house had ever seen a basil plant before.”

“Not one the size of a corgi,” Howl said, trailing behind her. “I’m fairly certain it growled at me this morning.”

“You probably deserved it,” she said, pushing the door open.

Cal stood in the middle of the kitchen, wielding a wooden spoon at a pot of basil that looked as though it was indeed attempting to escape its container.

“I gave it an ultimatum,” Cal said solemnly. “It refused to negotiate.”

Howl leaned in towards Sophie. “I told you. Mind of its own.”

Sophie sighed and snapped on a pair of gardening gloves like a surgeon preparing for an intense procedure. “Get me the trowel and a mat. We may have to repot.”

“And if that fails?” Howl asked.

She eyed the basil menacingly. “We mulch.”

There were other times, in between the banter, where the two of them seemed to slip into something quieter, more attuned. As if they understood each other better than either cared to admit.

“So, your dissertation is on… magic?”

It was Sunday evening, and Howl was sitting in the living room, books sprawled all around. Sophie was darting in and out, chatting with him in between preparing dinner. She thought it would be a useful idea to ask him questions about his research in the hope it might give her an early advantage. Evidently, it did not.

“The epistemology of magic, yes,” Howl replied distractedly.

“Right,” Sophie said, just as clueless as before. “And that’s linked to philosophy… how?”

Howl didn’t look up from the stack of books in front of him, his fingers grazing over the pages as if searching for something. He hummed in thought, a sign he was still half-distracted, though Sophie had learned to take that as a signal he was actually processing the question more deeply than usual.

“Well, the idea is to understand how we’ve come to know what we know about magic,” he explained slowly, trying to simplify it for her. “The framework of belief, the language we use to describe it, the way magic shapes our perception of the world around us.”

Sophie stopped for a second, wiping her hands. She raised an eyebrow, still skeptical. "And this helps with what, exactly? Does it help you pull rabbits out of hats, or…?"

Howl laughed, but it was gentle, as though he wasn’t entirely sure whether she was joking or just trying to follow along. He leaned back in his seat, finally meeting her eyes with a half-smile.

“I wish it were that simple. But no, magic isn’t just about spectacle or performing tricks. It’s about the intangible. The stuff we can’t touch but still shapes everything, like belief, intention, even history. Magic isn’t just an effect; it’s an experience.” He paused, as if considering her next question, and added, “It’s like asking why people are afraid of ghosts—there’s nothing there, but the idea, the belief… it’s enough to make people react as if they are real.”

Sophie blinked at him, momentarily thrown by how seriously he was talking about it. She had expected more showmanship, more grand gestures, or maybe some fancy talk about ancient spells. This sounded far more academic than she had imagined.

"Okay, so... magic is the idea of things?" she asked carefully, stirring the pot in front of her.

“Exactly.” Howl nodded, looking pleased she was getting it. “It’s about how the mind interacts with the unknown. How we fill in the gaps when we don’t have all the answers. It’s about belief, and how belief can shape reality.”

Sophie tilted her head, leaning against the counter with a thoughtful frown. “So you’re saying the more people believe in something, the more real it becomes?”

He gave her a knowing look, his fingers tapping against the spines of his books like he was weighing whether he should give her an answer or let her keep working it out herself.

“Well, it’s more complicated than that. But yes, you could say that. In a way, belief is a kind of energy, a force that can manifest, even if the physical laws of nature don’t always align with it.”

“That sounds…” Sophie trailed off, unsure whether to be amazed or completely baffled. “...Like you're just saying anything now.”

Howl grinned. “Welcome to the world of philosophy, Sophie. It’s all just a matter of perspective.”

She crossed her arms, still processing. “And your dissertation is about all of this? Why people believe in magic?”

“Precisely.” Howl flashed a grin, clearly enjoying the mental gymnastics of trying to explain something so abstract. “But also why they don’t. The skepticism, the doubt. It’s fascinating, really. How some people can believe in something with absolute certainty, while others can’t even entertain the idea.”

Sophie, now thoroughly intrigued but also slightly overwhelmed, glanced at the various open books scattered across the floor and coffee table. “Well, I can’t say I fully get it, but I do see its merit.” Her eyes flicked back to him. “It’s also incredibly… you.”

Howl chuckled. A deep, almost self-satisfied laugh, as though he were both flattered and amused by her comment.

He pushed the pile of books aside and stretched, his back cracking in the process.

“Because I’m always a little too wrapped up in my own head?” he teased, winking at her as he folded his arms behind his head, leaning back lazily.

Sophie rolled her eyes, though the slight smile tugging at the corners of her lips betrayed her. “Something like that. But you're also kind of a walking contradiction, you know? Magic is supposed to be, well, impressive, right? I expected you to talk about spells, potions, or at least some sort of mind-bending ritual. And here you are, philosophising about it like it’s a study.”

“Ah, but that is magic,” Howl replied, tapping his temple. “It’s all in how you perceive it. Sure, there are spells and rituals, but magic at its core isn’t about waving a wand and saying words. It’s about how everything around us can be imbued with meaning. Even this conversation. The way words—simple, everyday words—can carry so much weight, shape our thoughts, influence our feelings. There’s magic in that.”

Sophie raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it, but intrigued nonetheless. “And you think all of this is magic? Philosophy? The way we talk to each other? That’s your idea of magic?”

“Why not?” Howl shrugged nonchalantly, though there was a spark in his eyes that told her he wasn’t just being flippant. “Magic isn't just what you can touch or see, Sophie. It’s also in the unseen, the unspoken, the moments that don't fit neatly into a box. The uncharted territory of the mind. And I think that’s where the real power lies.” 

He leaned forward, voice lowering a fraction as if confiding a secret. “Imagine if we could control that. Manipulate those unseen forces. How much could we change about the world?”

Sophie’s fingers froze on the spoon she was stirring with, the thought of changing the world lingering in the air between them. She glanced at him, a touch of hesitation creeping into her expression. “Are you saying you could change people’s beliefs? If you wanted to, you could convince someone that magic is real?”

Howl’s smile widened, though it was contemplative now. “I wouldn’t say convince,” he murmured. “But yes, the right combination of words, ideas, images… those can shape perceptions. And from there, reality can be molded.”

Sophie didn’t know whether to be impressed or slightly unnerved. She had never really thought about the power of belief in such a tangible way. But then again, she was talking to Howl, the man who could make a bowl of soup seem like a delicacy with flowery words alone.

“So, if I believed I could cook a perfect dinner with just this spoon, you think I could?” she asked, an amused challenge in her voice, turning back to the pot in front of her.

Howl gave her an exaggerated, thoughtful look, his lips curling into a mischievous smile. “With enough belief,” he said slowly, “I’m sure you could summon a perfect dinner. But it might be more effective if you actually knew how to cook, too.” He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “Magic requires more than belief, you see. It requires intent, willpower, and sometimes, a bit of knowledge about how things work.”

Sophie rolled her eyes, unable to suppress a grin. “So, no magic dinner tonight, then?”

“Not unless you're secretly a sorceress in disguise,” Howl teased, but his gaze softened a little. “But who knows? With the right amount of conviction, you might surprise yourself.”

She smiled, shaking her head. “Well, if you’re going to keep talking about belief and magic, I might have to start taking notes. You’re starting to sound like a philosopher yourself.”

Howl's eyes gleamed, the playful, devil-may-care spark back in full force. “Would you like a lesson, then? I promise I can make it... enchanting.”

Sophie laughed despite herself, shaking her head again, though this time there was something genuine and almost wistful in her smile. She had once been wary of his flirtatious nature, but now was just as comfortably familiar as the rest of the house. “You're impossible, Howl.”

“True,” he said, leaning back into the settee with a dramatic sigh. “But isn't that what makes life interesting?”

She could only nod, the evening settling into a comfortable, quiet rhythm as she continued to stir the pot. And Howl, at least for now, fell back into his thoughts, his dissertation clearly far from finished.