48: “Nightmares again?” if ur still taking those prompts >:)
a/n this is actually “Please say something”. I’m a doofus. sorry.
“You’ll write?” Tina stares, unseeing, at his scarf, then forces herself to look up into his eyes. A shiver runs through her when she finds that he’s looking into hers as well.
“Yes.” He nods jerkily. “Promise. And—and you’ll write back?”
Her lips pull into a tentative smile. “Promise.”
She wipes a tear from her eye with the back of one finger, and he reaches to finish the task for her. His skin is calloused and scarred; his touch, gentle.
They linger, gazes catching and pulling away as they try to stretch the moment.
Please say something.
“Dorset has much nicer weather in the summer.” His hand falls back to his side.
She takes a breath. “What?”
He plows on, eyes trained on the ground somewhere beside her. “My family’s house is nearby—and there are some fascinating creatures native to England. Perhaps by the summer, MACUSA will need an auror to report back to the Ministry. And—you could visit me. Er—if you wanted.” He looks up, hopeful.
“Oh,” she breathes. Her chest feels less empty. “Newt, that sounds—” Please say something.
His gaze fixes on her for a moment, hopeful, cautious. These past days have been a blur of grief and anger over her sister, anticipation of the wizarding world’s fights to come…there hasn’t been a moment to even try to understand this wonderful, new, terrifying thing between them. They have spoken about much else, but—not about that.
The words rushing onto the tip of her tongue are so clumsy, so…
Tina lifts a hand, noting vaguely that it is steadier than she’d expected, and touches the back of her fingers to his cheek. His eyelashes flutter, his ragged breath falling between them, and when he opens his eyes, there is something bright and fiery and tender in them that makes her chest tight. With her hand still resting on his freckled, sun-beaten skin, she leans forward until her lips reach his forehead. She lingers as he presses into the touch, and, just as slowly, pulls away.
Still looking down, he whispers roughly into the small space between them. “I’ve never felt like this around anyone.”
She spreads the fingers still resting on his cheek, tracing a scar that runs just beneath the angle of his jaw. “Neither have I.” She can feel his swallow beneath her fingers. “I’ll come back,” she promises suddenly, her touch falling away when it becomes too much. “Even if MACUSA don’t—even if the weather’s—I’ll come back.”
His smile is soft, tender, breathtaking when it finds hers. Don’t cry, she tells herself, but she can feel tears already gathering, breaking free. He wipes the tears away as he had before, a barely-there touch. “Take care of yourself.”
“I will. You, too.” The last of the passengers are boarding her ship; the dock clearing out in the minutes they’ve spent unaware. “I should—” she pulls away, glancing toward the ramp.
“I’ll see you,” he murmurs, gratitude in his words, looking up to meet her gaze one last time.
“Soon,” she promises, soaking in his messy hair, wide eyes, the tilt of his neck. She’s not certain of the way in which she’ll keep that promise, but she is sure that she will. Somehow.
He touches her hand, squeezing it once and then releasing her as she backs away, turning only after several steps. Reaching into her coat pocket, she traces the edge of a newspaper clipping, an author’s portrait in which he looks distinctly uncomfortable, a poor likeness of the way she sees him in reality. But for now, as she steps onto the ship and, marveling, presses a few fingers to her lips, it will do.
