The castle had stopped just on the edge of a valley, its strange legs folded beneath it like some great bird at rest. Above, the night sky was a sea of velvet scattered with a thousand diamond points, the moon so full and bright that it bleached the rolling grass to silver. You had stepped outside for a quiet moment, away from the constant shuffling and muttering of the castle’s machinery. The air was still—until a low, lilting whistle broke it, winding lazily toward you like smoke.

“How convenient,” Howl’s voice called from somewhere in the dark, “that I should find you here—the perfect image of a heroine waiting on their balcony.”

He stepped out from behind the ruin of an old stone wall, his long coat trailing like spilled moonlight behind him. His hair was the shade of spun gold tonight, falling in loose, shining layers that caught and reflected the silver glow. His smile—half playful, half knowing—was the kind that belonged to someone who had been told far too many times how handsome they were, and had learned to wield it like a weapon.

“You’ll have to forgive me,” he continued, walking toward you with the sort of careful grace that made each step feel intentional. “I’ve decided to play the part of Romeo tonight. I’m afraid I’ve skipped the balcony, and I’ve brought no roses, but—” he swept a hand outward, gesturing at the star-flooded sky, “—I think the stage is suitably grand.”

When you didn’t answer, his eyes narrowed in mock offense. “Ah… silent as ever. That makes my role all the harder, you know. Romeo had lines to work with. I’ll have to do all the wooing myself.”

He began to circle you, a lazy orbit, boots whispering in the grass. The air felt… warmer, somehow, though the wind was cool—magic curling at the edges, stirred by his mood. The scent of something faintly floral drifted by, though there were no flowers for miles.

“You do realize,” he said from behind you, “Romeo’s tragedy was not in his love, but in his lack of imagination. One night, one balcony, one kiss… and then it was over. I,” he stepped back into view, his blonde hair spilling like sunlight over his shoulder, “have far greater ambitions.”

His fingers brushed your sleeve, barely there. “If I’m to play the part, I’m rewriting the ending. I refuse to die at the end.”

From the open door of the castle came Calcifer’s dry voice. “He’s laying it on thick tonight.”

Howl’s expression didn’t even flicker. “Quiet, you,” he said smoothly, eyes never leaving yours. Then, with a deliberate slowness, he reached into the air beside him—and pulled. Magic shimmered faintly at his fingertips, and when he opened his hand, a single rose, deep red and impossibly perfect, rested there. Its petals glistened as if kissed by dew.

“For you,” he said simply, offering it with a slight bow. “A poor substitute for the ones in Verona, but I like to think mine last longer.”

You accepted it, though he made no move to release your hand after you did. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, a slow, thoughtful gesture. “Tell me,” he murmured, leaning just enough for a lock of golden hair to fall forward, “am I winning my part? Or shall I have to conjure a moonlit balcony as well?”

Before you could answer, the ground beneath you shifted with a creak of gears. The castle—perhaps at Howl’s silent urging—had extended one of its side platforms outward, forming a small, raised terrace over the grass. In a matter of moments, the wooden beams shimmered into white stone, overgrown with illusions of ivy, their leaves stirring in a wind that wasn’t really there.

“There we are,” Howl said, stepping back to admire his work. “A proper stage for our scene.”

He took your hand again, this time drawing you gently toward the conjured balcony. “Indulge me, won’t you? I promise—” his grin returned, sharp and warm all at once, “—my version ends far better than the original. No poison. No daggers. Just you, and me, and the rest of the night.”