1927’s England was a dark place to be, with the threat of Grindelwald. It’d what led you to have less and less hours of sleep, which is why you were awake at midnight thinking of his launched coup in Paris. How you and Newt, your boyfriend, could’ve died— it was all a series of very dark, very uncalled for thoughts that you wanted to leave alone.

Thoughts don’t do that, though.

Newt blinked his bleary eyes, feeling the absence of a familiar warmth in his bed— oh, that was unusual. He always had you with him, so it prompted him to light his wand to see if there was an intruder there. No, it was just you, but why weren’t you in bed? It was twelve in the night, dear Lord.

His first instinct that you were experiencing some form of restlessness— he had a few sleeping potions or relaxation remedies in his suitcase he could use if the Niffler hadn’t mistaken the liquid for treasure yet. But he just sighed, tilted his head, sitting up in his bed. First check was whether you’re ok.

“Love?” He called out softly, and you were a few metres away— of course it got your attention, you weren’t exactly a few miles from the bed, just at the window and looking beautiful in the moonlight. Not the time— were you alright? He had to know.

Newt squinted in the light to see you, to check if you were ok just standing there in the dark with the only light source being the barely-shining moon, but you seemed it. Ok, good, now his only concern was why you weren’t in bed. “You’re— you’re not in bed, why?” Seems like a very valid question.

Midnight.