The night air clings to your lungs like ash.

You’re crouched behind a broken wall, half-sheltered by shadows and silence. The city around you is a ruin—twisted steel, cracked pavement, windows blown out like dead eyes. Every sound feels too loud. Every breath, too thin.

Beside you, Newt shifts his weight, the fabric of his jacket brushing yours. He doesn’t speak, not yet. Just watches. He always watches.

His eyes flicker to the tremor in your fingers.

You curl them into your palm.

“Still with me?” He asks, voice low.

You nod. Lie.

The truth itches under your skin, a fever burning slow. You’ve felt it for days now—just a flicker at first. A pounding in your skull that wouldn’t go away. The aching muscles. The exhaustion. You know what it means. You’ve seen it before.

You’ve seen what it did to him.

And Newt—Newt would never forgive himself if he missed it. If he didn’t notice. So you’ve gotten good at pretending. Smiling when your bones ache. Making jokes with a raw throat. Hiding the way your hands won’t stop shaking when he isn’t looking.

But he’s always looking now.

“You’re breathing different.” He says. Not accusing. Just…careful.

You force a grin and say that you just tired.

His jaw tenses. He doesn’t believe you. Not fully. But he doesn’t press, either. Maybe he doesn’t want the answer.

A flare of pain spikes behind your eyes. Your body folds in on itself—just slightly. Just enough. And Newt is there, hand catching your arm before you even sway. Steady. Warm. Worried.

“Bloody hell, love…” He breathes.

“You’re burning up.”

Your heart lurches. He felt it. The fever.

And just like that, the pretending starts to bleed through.