But there are other, small pieces of magic tucked in. The quarter that stops perfectly in the crack in the floorboards. The pies that always come out just the way Bitty wants them to no matter how much time he has in the Haus kitchen. And unless something is wrong, unless the mood is disturbed, Bitty never drops one of them. The way leaves always cling to Nursey, like he’s static charged, or like the wind and the earth are drawn to him. The way the Haus’ roof always seems to hold exactly as much weight as it needs to, even when it shouldn’t be structurally sound enough to hold the weight of four or five hockey boys and their much smaller manager. A little bit of love in the jam that makes Jack warm and happy and calm when he’s going through his pre-game ritual, a feeling he notices most when it was jam he got from Bitty.
There are things that none of them understand but that they accept, because everyday magic is more literal than figurative at Samwell.