Newton had scars on his wrists, and Hermann didn't ask. They were covered over by his tattoos, barely visible under his bracelets and his watch and the riot of color on his skin, but they were there. Thin, slashing scars down his arms, healed but never healed. Hermann saw them, and Hermann didn't ask.
Hermann worked with Newton side by side for a long time and he watched him. He saw the bravado and when others laughed at his theories he saw the hurt in Newton's eyes. He saw the battle between wanting to be liked and not wanting to care. He found Newton in the lab more than once sitting over a kaiju specimen very still, the scalpel in one hand, staring at his bare arm. Hermann asked him to lunch, but he didn't ask about that.
Hermann didn't ask because he didn't have to. He knew the hurt that came with rejection, knew how cruel children could be and that cruel children grew up to be crueler adults. He knew that loneliness and sadness that opened a gaping hole in your chest and never seemed like it would go away. Newton threw himself into his kaiju so thoroughly because it made his overactive brain stop for a while. Hermann had been there, and so he didn't ask.
Vanessa had saved him. Vanessa had been Hermann's comfort and his light, helping to draw him out of the darkness he'd fallen into. She had been his encouragement and his anchor. He could never thank her enough for that. But Newton had no one to anchor him. Hermann knew that, and Hermann didn't ask.
What he did do, however, was climb into bed beside Newton and wrap his arms around him. And when the tattooed scientist burrowed his head into Hermann's shoulder and clung to him like he would never let go, all Hermann said was "I know." He didn't ask. He just held his friend. He did not think Vanessa would mind.