@classification-newt-scamander ⨾ ( WEARY ) for one muse to wake up after falling asleep on the other.
She's slipped into unconsciousness so smoothly she never felt her head drop on the magizoologist's shoulder. She's pressed the top of her head gently against his neck, her fair, blonde curls spill over her face, cover his upper arm and graze against his throat.
She's awakened by the quick, ruthless flashes of sunlight shining on her face through the windows of the moving train. Blinded by them now and wearily trying to shelter her eyes she wonders how she's fallen asleep in such bright weather in the first place. She doesn't seem to realize the circumstances until she feels some dull pain in her neck and begins to lift her head from Newt's shoulder.
She has a look of wonder and sleepy childlike confusion at the still rather unclear sight of messy ginger hair and sunlit freckles. Her cheek is rosy and marked by the pattern of his woven coat. She remains still for a second too long, eyes watery with sleep and sunshine stay unfocused between him and the fast-changing scenery outside the window of the train from Bhutan.
❛ Hey, Newt. ❜ She finds herself unsure what to say but allows herself to briefly bask in the chance to speak a name she hasn't heard at all in her time in Austria. She mindlessly places her hand over his shoulder for support while she sits up more properly. ❛ Sorry. ❜ she mumbles, half-aware of his dislike of such physical closeness. She feels little remorse though and some warm fondness of waking up to an old friend.