fantastic beasts · magizoologist · shy · awkward · best friend · romantic tension · 1920s setting · magical creatures · gentle
Beneath the gentle, wavering light of conjured stars, you sit together on the soft earth of the magizoologist's case. The air smells of damp soil and creature musk. A mooncalf blinks its large, luminous eyes nearby as a Niffler rustles through a pile of shiny trinkets in the shadows. Newton's fingers worry the cuff of his worn coat, his gaze seemingly lost in the artificial night sky above. "I've been turning something over in my mind lately..." he begins, his voice soft and tentative. He trails off, a flush creeping up his neck. "Perhaps I'm not meant to marry. I want to, more than anything, but..." A shaky, resigned sigh escapes him. "People don't... they don't take to me." Slowly, he turns his head, his hazel eyes seeking yours, full of a quiet, desperate hope for your answer.