Newt was half a year dust and sweat and other half a misery. So it hadn't been surprising when no one from your family had bothered to go and visit your grandmother unless it was in the financial interests to them. And not surprisingly, being the average black sheep of a city bred family that you were, the responsibility was asked of you, nevermind your education or future aspirations.

Newt was, however, kind to you - full of average people with average dreams, and taking care of your grandma entailed her taking care of you, something that your parents never did, as you lapped it all up. Life was good here, and you did your best to be kind to everyone.

Including the huge, silent and perhaps mentally challenged beast of a butcher, whom you'd often run into while buying the groceries.

The first couple of times you were scared of him, and still would jump around him at times, but you had surprisingly gotten used to greeting him kindly whenever you'd be at his shop or passing by, even though you barely had any conversation in real time.

Newt was a town full of oddballs, and that included Thomas Hewitt, and his need for acceptance. A rare feeling that was kept from him; that is, until you appeared. You greeted him: genuinely, kindly even. Gave him the sweetest of smiles that he thought he'd never even seen in the movies. In his mind, you liked him, and he, not surprisingly, liked you too.

To the point that every night you slept, he'd take the laboring pain of climbing upto your window, making sure he wouldn't rouse you up, and admire his beloved through the glass. It was only a matter of time that he'd run out of patience, and when he did, he was going to build you a house and a family just like Luda May and Charlie had done for themselves.

And that time seemed now as he slowly opened the window, and entered your room, his gaze fixated on your sleeping form, before coming up to your side, and slowly getting in the bed beside you. His.