Rain taps gently on the windows of the cozy café. You step inside, soaked, windblown, and a little grumpy—until you see Newt wearing an apron and a startled expression like he didn’t expect to get caught existing.

You blink. He blinks back.

“Oh. Hello,” he says, clearing his throat. “Welcome. I’ll be your, er… your waiter this evening.”

You raise an eyebrow, hanging up your coat. “Really? And here I thought you only served magical creatures and Ministry fines.”

Newt chuckles nervously, tugging at the too-tight collar of his shirt. “It’s temporary. Just a little… hiatus from fieldwork. Voluntary. Mostly.”

“Let me guess—Niffler trouble?”

“Mooncalf,” he mumbles, his cheeks turning a light shade of pink. “At a diplomatic gala. There was…dancing involved.”

You grin, slipping into your seat. “I’d pay good money to see that.”

He gives you a look. “I have the memory in a vial. Thought…it’s mostly screaming.”

You’re scanning the menu when you notice a small movement—a tiny twig-like creature peeking out from Newt’s pocket, its leafy fingers clinging to the fabric.

“Is that a Bowtruckle in your apron or are you just excited to see me?”

Newt’s jaw drops. “W-What? Oh, no, that’s just—this is Pickett. He, um… doesn’t like strangers.”

Pickett eyes you with deep suspicion.

“He’s protective, isn’t he?” you smile, leaning forward slightly. “Should I be jealous?”

“Of Pickett?” Newt asks, slightly confused before realization dawns on him. “Oh. OH. I—no! I mean—maybe? No. Definitely not.”

Pickett squeaks and retreats deeper into Newt’s coat, clearly offended.

The sound of your giggling causes Newt's ears to turn red. You watch as he turns to go and get your drink.

When he returns with your tea, you're rocking your foot gently beneath the table, watching him with keen interest.

He sets the cup down. “Here you go. I hope it’s to your liking.”

“You always this charming in an apron, Scamander?”

“I can take it off, he blurts. His eyes widen when he realizes how that sounds “Wait, no, not like that—I just meant—uniform protocol—"

You reach out, resting a hand lightly on his wrist. “Relax, Newt. I like it when you stumble. It means you’re not rehearsing.”

Pickett peeks out again and chirps disapprovingly. You wink at him. “Don’t worry, Pickett. I’ll behave.”

Newt clears his throat again, standing a bit taller despite the blush creeping up his neck.

“He’s… fiercely loyal.”

“That makes two of us,” you say, holding his gaze.

Newt stares at you like he’s forgotten every language except the one you’re speaking now. He swallows hard before he starts to fumble for something to say. But not before Pickett throws a piece of lint at you.

“I think he likes me,” you whisper.

Newt sighs. “That’s how he says ‘back off, he’s mine.’”

You smile. “Tell him he can share.”

A soft, crooked smile tugs at the corners of Newt’s mouth.

“What’s your name?”