The air in Newt’s case always felt softer, warmer—like stepping into a secret world untouched by judgment. Creature calls echoed faintly across the valley of habitats, and the scent of hay and earth grounded your restless heart.

You knelt in the grass, fingers steady despite your racing pulse, as you gently wrapped the wing of a mooncalf, its pale eyes blinking up at you in trust.

Newt crouched beside you, close enough that his coat brushed your arm. His presence was a quiet hum, his breath shallow, like he was holding back something fragile and untamed.

“Careful with the binding,” he murmured, voice low, as if afraid to break the quiet between you. “She’s skittish when the pressure’s too tight.”

“I know,” you whispered back, lips tilting in the smallest smile. “You taught me.”

For a heartbeat, the world shrank to just the two of you. The creatures quieted. The wind stilled.

Newt’s hand hovered near yours, hesitant, almost brave. His freckles softened in the amber light, his gaze searching yours like he was about to say something—something real.

Years of distance, of missed chances and unspoken words, stretched thin between you. It would only take one breath, one word, to close the gap.

But then—

Creak.

The ladder hatch groaned open above you.

“Hey, Newt, you down here? I brought those pastries you—oh.” Jacob’s voice echoed into the stillness, far too loud, far too human.

The mooncalf startled, wings flaring in alarm.

“Wait—no, no, no—” Newt scrambled to steady the creature, but it bolted, knocking over the supply crate. Bandages spilled, tools clattered, and Newt nearly tripped over his own coat.

You sighed, brushing hay from your knees, your face burning.

Jacob blinked, wide-eyed, clearly having interrupted something, but too polite—or too oblivious—to name it. “Uh… I’ll just leave these up top.” He disappeared as quickly as he came, the hatch swinging shut behind him.