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.”