Warning: some smuttiness and heavy adult themes. This story deals with the topic of miscarriage and all it's associated unpleasantness, so please do click away if those are triggers for you. This was originally published on Ao3 on March 23rd, 2017 and is being included here for the sake of my own ego.

Again: deals with the topic of miscarriage. You should probably read "March 3, 1931" and "The Call of The Wild" before this, though they're not required.

Late May, 1931

It's the third night in a row that Tina has grimaced and pushed her supper meat away. Newt watches her carefully before dabbing his mouth and setting his napkin aside. He chews deliberately, trying to formulate his question, before reaching out to take her hand. She smiles and squeezes his fingers, and he can no longer pretend not to notice the fine sweat oiling her face.

"Tina," he asks, keeping his voice pitched low and non-threatening. "Are you feeling unwell?"

Tina sighs and pulls her hand from his while dropping her gaze to the table. She swallows and he again notes how pale she is in the low light of the candles, how wan and drawn. "I'm not sure," she finally says in a whisper. "I feel fine mostly, but sometimes I just feel sick. Food smells seem to make it worse."

Newt digests this before asking the obvious question. "Have you perhaps started sourcing your meat from a new butcher? One who isn't keeping their wares as fresh as they should?"

Tina starts to shake her head before he's finished the question, and Newt's eyes go unfocused as his mind clicks along, weighing and discarding probabilities almost immediately, formulating causalities and responses until one all-too-plausible possibility begins to take nebulous form.

He pushes away from the table and rounds it to squat by her seat, putting them on equal footing. He takes her hands and tips his head boyishly, and she smiles while pushing his hair off his brow. He leans into the touch and allows this peaceful moment before potentially shattering their world to pieces.

"When did you start feeling ill, love?" He doesn't look her in the eye, instead focusing on her left shoulder. That doesn't prevent him from seeing her unhappy frown, or the way her brow wrinkles in consternation.

"Last month," she admits slowly. "I thought it was nothing. Maybe a bad hot dog—I wanted one so badly. I know you avoid the street vendors but Newt, they're so good and we aren't in New York often so I figured, why not?"

Newt rubs his thumb over her knuckles in long, slow sweeps. "That's fine. Tina, I'm going to embarrass you and I'm sorry, but—I don't recall seeing you wash your garments from your last cycle. Did you not have one?"

"I did," she says shortly, blood infusing her face as it always did when this subject came up. Even after nearly seven months of marriage, and his casual acceptance of every eccentricity her body possesses, she still instinctively raises her hackles whenever the subject was breached. He suspects it always will, and it endears her to him all the more.

"But it was different, last time," she breathes, and there's a dawning comprehension in her expression. Her eyes go very wide and Newt chances meeting them with his own. She blinks at him, words tumbling out of her. "It was, it was lighter, it only lasted a day but Newt, I thought, I thought it was just s-stress or the time change or—"

She hiccups and the moisture in her eyes swells and spills over. Newt leans forward to pull her into his shoulder and comfort her through the sudden cloudburst of tears, thinking absently that he'll have to get used to this for a while. "Tina, love, it's fine," he croons. "You didn't know, and we couldn't have anticipated this."

(Well, we could have, he thinks ruefully, wise enough to keep this thought entirely to himself. But it isn't called 'biological destiny' just because it sounds fancy!)

Tina sniffles and draws back, face blotchy and streaked with tears. Newt tenderly brushes her cheeks with his thumb, and though she's the picture of misery, she bravely meets his eyes. "I had a clue, though," she whispers shakily. "Your birthday. I thought that maybe we were cutting it close but it was your birthday and I wanted to be able to make love to you, so I figured we'd be fine."

Newt stares in shock and has to clear his throat twice before he's able to answer, sudden emotion clogging his voice. He swallows hard, fumbling out his handkerchief to dry her face until he's composed. "It's remarkable to me," he whispers hoarsely, "that I have a wife who loves me enough to make such a sacrifice for my happiness when she's the one who wished so adamantly to delay starting a family."

He brushes her chin with his knuckles and her eyes again filled with tears. "I would say that this is the best birthday gift a man could wish for, but then I'd be lying—because you're all I've ever wished for; anything else is a blessing."

He smiles then, and Tina shakily mirrors him. She rests her cheek against his own, damp skin on damp skin, and sighs wetly in his ear. "You aren't angry, Newt?"

Newt wraps her in his arms, tight tight tight, and presses a kiss into her temple. "Not at all, Tina. Not at all."

Her hair grows damp but she isn't in a position to complain; her tears seep into the fine linen of his shirt, even through the heavy tweed of his waistcoat. "Then I guess we're going to be parents, sooner than we expected. We'll have to reschedule our African trip, I think, and rearrange our plans for next year, but that's to be worried about down the road. Just...no more meat for a while, okay?"

Newt laughs a little shakily, and presses his face deeper into her hair, inhaling her clean scent. "Of course, my love. Whatever you require," he whispers, and they stay like that until their tears dry and the sun sets over the buildings, casting them in a warm glow.

They consult Tina's copy of The Witch's Guide to Married Life to confirm their suspicion through symptoms and follow the simple potion instructions to the letter, setting it aside until morning. They turn the lights low and strip each other in the dark before Tina pulls him into bed. They make love beneath the covers, and there's a poignant moment, right in the middle, when Newt slows their rocking to kiss her stomach and breasts, murmuring adorations of a different kind into her skin.

In the dark and pressed close, Newt finally allows himself to notice the very subtle changes in her body—the way her nipples have darkened and widened, the hard knot dominating the flat skin beneath her navel, and the new fullness of her breasts. He kisses each of these things in turn and kisses her tears away when her emotions once again get the best of her, before tucking her under his chin and rocking her to sleep.

Tina locks herself in the bathroom first thing in the morning, while Newt's still yawning and blinking against the daylight. She follows the instructions precisely, and emerges five minutes later with shaking hands, trembling lips and cautiously radiant eyes. She firms the line of her mouth when she confirms the diagnosis. Newt drags her back into bed, pulls her atop him, and touches and tastes until she's gasping and all traces of hesitation are scoured away by the intensity of his love.

"Orion," he says afterward, clear out of the blue. Tina lifts her head from where she's been tracing her fingernail along his scars, scratching lines between them, and lifts a curious eyebrow. Newt smiles, a little sheepishly. "Er—if we have a son. His name should be Orion."

Tina shakes her head, sending her hair flying, and sits up to straddle his abdomen. Newt's eyebrows creep into his hair, eyes wide at the suggestive posture—especially so close on the heels of their last romp. Tina ignores his confusion in favor of teasing, mood once again turning on a dime.

"Orion?" She wrinkles her nose in mock distaste and pinches his side playfully. Newt cramps protectively and giggles, cheeks flushing. "All those old Greek god names you European wizards prefer—don't you find them a bit stuffy?"

She gives him a moment to mull this over before digging her fingers into his ribs, tickling ruthlessly. He utters a harsh bark of almost-laughter and bucks, catching her to roll them over neatly. Newt wrenches her fingers away from his skin and pins them at her side, cutting her protests off neatly with a kiss. "Hardly stuffy," he murmurs against her jaw. "They're classic, Porpentina."

Tina gulps and rocks her head back, granting him access to her neck, and he hums as he presses his stubble into her skin. "So says Newton Artemis Fid—" Another sultry kiss and she chokes on the words, thought train effectively derailed in favor of heat and tongue and the mutual give-and-take they thrive on.

We'll have an entire menagerie of children at this rate, Newt thinks absently when she opens to accept him once more, then all thoughts are driven from his head when she touches him and calls his name in the way only she can, giving herself over to his ministrations joyously.

They visit the healer two days later, to confirm something they've known and celebrated privately time and time again. She's a stout, black-haired Irish witch with the entirely appropriate name of Shannon Stork, and she gives felicitations while clucking and fluttering around Tina, checking this and that before laying her back and pressing apologetic hands into her stomach. Tina winces at the contact, and the midwife pops her tongue.

"A bit tender, are you? Well, comes with being a woman, you know. Wait until this pup wants out! You have hard cycles, I ken?" Newt drops his gaze to the floor when Tina curls her lip in momentary irritation.

"I do," she bites out, "but I fail to see how that matters right now."

Healer Stork doesn't even blink at Tina's heated rejoinder, just helps her sit up and straighten her blouse. "It's because o' the hard belly," she explains over Tina's head, speaking directly to Newt. "Pressing shouldn't have caused pain, but in my experience, women whose moon-time is a misery tend to have the most pain at my examination. It's perfectly normal, dear."

She helps Tina down from the table and pats her hand. "Everything seems perfectly fine. I have some things to go over with you in my office while your husband waits in the hall, but tell me: do ye know approximately when conception occurred? Only, I couldn't tell from the examination alone, and you didn't tell me when you arrived."

Newt blushes and shifts awkwardly, and Tina clamps her hands over her mouth to suppress a giggle. "March 3rd, or thereabouts," she finally manages, and healer Stork nods approvingly.

"You're nearly three months gone, then," she says warmly. "Ye'll be getting a unique gift sometime before Christmas. Celebrate appropriately. Now, Mrs. Scamander, let's leave your husband outside and speak of women's things. Come with me to my office."

Seeming bemused and hopelessly charmed, Tina follows Stork through the splintery door, but not before squeezing Newt reassuringly and dropping a kiss on the tip of his nose.

"Are you happy, my dear?" Newt asks later, setting a plate of dry toast before her while sunset glints ash and cinders off her hair. Lovely, he thinks and pushes a strand back to tuck behind her ear. He kisses her cheek before sitting next to her with his tea, and she smiles weakly in thanks.

"I am, usually," she says. "I have moments when I freak out a little, but healer Stork said that's very normal, and that it will happen a lot until I quicken, which I think means we'll be able to feel the baby move." She grimaces at the alien concept before moving on, picking listlessly at the crust of toast. She makes a face and pushes it away before leaning into his shoulder.

"We didn't plan this, so I'm actually really disappointed in myself," she admits in a whisper. Newt waits for her to finish, watching her carefully as she closes her eyes. "I really thought we'd be okay, Newt. I'm truly sorry."

He abandons his teacup in favor of winding his arm around her, pulling her into his chest securely. "No need to apologize," he says low in her ear, before kissing the soft skin behind it. "I'm equally as responsible. I knew the date as well as you did, and it slipped my mind entirely." He takes a sip of his tea, careful to angle the cup away from her, and swallows before dropping a kiss in her hair.

"Besides. I am truly overjoyed to share this with you, Tina. The book, our adventures—they all pale in comparison to this. You will make a wonderful mother, and I am confident you will step up to compensate for my assured deficiencies without trouble." It's meant to be a joke but it falls flat, and he grimaces and closes his eyes, mentally scrambling to better explain himself.

Tina rotates in his arm and presses her mouth to his ear. "How do you do that?" she breathes, and Newt winces. "How do you always know how to say the right thing?"

Startled, he opens his eyes to find her smiling at him gently, eyes gleaming. She traces his mouth with her thumb while he gapes until his jaw snaps shut and he swallows. "I don't know," he admits hoarsely, entirely honest in his disbelief, and Tina grins.

"Well, keep it up, Mr. Scamander." A beat, then: "I love you. I am happy. I'm just feeling very overwhelmed by everything right now. Can we...would it be too forward if I asked you to…?"

"Not at all," he breathes, eyes shining at her with open wonder when Tina takes his hand and leads him to bed.

The spend a quiet week together, marveling over the gradual changes in Tina and bracing for the impending alterations to their life together.

The third day is spent mostly in acrimonious silence—Tina wakes in a brittle mood and she seethes every time he attempts to speak to her. By noon, Newt's invented an excuse to go out, and he tarries for as long as he can before braving the in-law apartment they utilize while in New York.

He comes home at dusk to find Tina crumpled into the couch, sobbing wretchedly as she clutches a cushion. He doesn't bother to remove his coat, just crosses the room in three long strides to pull her into his arms—where she attempts to climb into his skin while pressing her wet face to his neck.

"I'm sorry," she gasps when her sobs have reduced to hiccups. "I don't know what came over me. I just—I was so angry earlier, and then you left and you didn't come back and—"

"I'm here," he chokes, and she finds a way to press even closer, burrowing into his coat. His own tears fall onto her shoulder, unacknowledged.

Tina talks to Queenie the fifth day, over Newt's strenuous objections, and the conversation hurts in ways she isn't prepared to handle. "I'm very happy for you," her sister says softly, but the words sound rote and hollow. It doesn't take long for Queenie to pluck her hidden worries directly from her head, and Tina ends up comforting her as best she can while her beautiful, vibrant younger sister weeps on her shoulder.

"You and Newt weren't even plannin' it," Queenie wails, and the bitterness in the blonde's voice causes tears to prickle Tina's eyes. "You don't even want this baby—it ain't fair!" She sobs prettily while Tina fumblingly reassures her, but this is a new paradigm for them and she feels entirely out of her depth.

The bitter taste of bile coats the back of her throat—Queenie's words are harsh but entirely accurate. Tina still hadn't come to terms with everything, and now, just when she thinks she may be starting to accept it, her tentative happiness causes her sister untold pain. Queenie picks up on this, of course, and cries harder.

It takes a while but eventually they both calm down. Over pastries, Queenie confesses that she and Jacob had been aiming toward starting a family from the moment they were married, with no apparent success. Queenie—beautiful, confident, vivacious Queenie—exposes the tender, peeling ache at the core of her, and reveals her secret fear that she may be unable to give her husband the family he desires.

It is a somber and drawn Tina who returns to her husband that night, and he's a good enough man to not say I told you so; instead, he holds her when she cries and kisses her when he puts her to bed. When she wakes in the middle of the night and clings to him, he endures this until dawn and doesn't say a word.

They talk, at last, on the morning of the sixth day.

Newt leans against the headboard, blankets pooled around his bare waist while Tina snugs into his side. He splays a possessive hand over her abdomen as she kisses his strong chest, the tendons of his throat.

"Are you happy?" he asks in a whisper, his hand rubbing slow circles into her skin, and Tina smiles.

"I am," she answers, and it's entirely the truth. "I was worried and upset at first. I wasn't sure if I was ready for this. But now...yes, I am. How can I not be? We're going to have a baby, and even if the timing is all wrong, it's a blessing."

Newt smiles at her, ducks his head, kisses the tip of her nose. He cups her jaw and kisses her mouth deeply as if drinking her words. His hand wanders, and his mouth follows, and soon she's tucked beneath him as he moves over her—worshiping the breadth of his shoulders, adoring the press of his chest into hers, the way his hips roll just so to tease a crescendo out of her. She gasps into his shoulder, bites hard enough to leave a mark, and he sighs her name.

Newt tells her he loves her when he crests, trembling gloriously and gasping into her hair, and she accepts his weight and smooths over his freckles while he recovers. Then they dress and present a united front to the day, and cautiously, tentatively, carefully begin not just to understand but accept their changing future.

On the eighth night, Tina wakes in the dark to a puddle of blood and the understanding that something is very wrong.

Tina hunches double over the toilet and retches. Work-roughened but fine-boned hands smooth her hair back and murmur appropriately soothing words. They steady her, despite their shaking, and Tina doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. In the end, she does a bit of both.

The fit passes, and he dabs at her pinched face with a damp flannel. Newt's brow is wrinkled with worry but she knows his worry is entirely for her—there's nothing to be done for the baby-that-was if the vicious, cycling ache in her lower belly is any indication. Another cramp works through her and she curls into it with a moan, her lost and helpless fingers tangling in his pajama top. He endures this as he's endured everything so far: with fumblingly-chosen words and desperately kind eyes.

Tina swallows down bile until she feels calm, and Newt seats her on the edge of the cast-iron tub before he goes to the bedroom to gather her items. He returns with hated yet familiar trappings: the uncomfortable elastic belt with it's two cruel clips and the thick, long cloths that she can never, ever seem to get the stains out of, even with her most powerful cleaning spells.

She cleans her blood-streaked thighs before tugging and pulling and clipping on the doubled-up rags.

Roses bloom on snow as the fabric soaks up her body's betrayal.

Newt changes the sheets (she later finds them shoved in the trash can) and guides her to bed. Tina rises twice in the night to change and doesn't bother attempting to wash the rags—she doesn't want the attached memory. They go straight into the waste bin, clots and all. Her husband holds her close and strokes her hair each time she returns to bed, and she cries until she's shed an ocean of tears and is left wrung-out and hollow.

Sleep doesn't come, and they are gritty-eyed and exhausted at the first gray light of dawn.

Newt blinks owlishly out the window, his overheated forehead pressed to cool glass while the city pulses with daytime vitality around him.

Behind him, Tina finally dozes, but restlessly—tossing and mumbling in her repose. She rolls toward his empty spot and he closes his eyes when her breathing changes and she comes instantly awake. "Newt?"

"I'm here," he rasps, not turning around, and hears her shaky sigh.

"Come back to bed?" she asks in a tiny voice, and he allows a grimace to twist his features before mastering his expression. A deep breath, two, until he regains enough control to turn and face her properly. His restraint slips, just for a moment, when he sees the deep shadows lining her face. Then he reasserts himself, pushing his own hurt deep for her sake, and climbs into bed.

She crawls onto his lap, as awkward and eager as a little girl turning to her father after a nightmare, while Newt holds her and inhales her scent and takes her pain into himself.

It takes a week, a full seven days, for Tina's body to clean itself.

She throws her soiled rags away.

She doesn't let Queenie in when she knocks.

She doesn't leave the apartment.

Her sister tries again on the fourth day, and Tina turns her away with a snarl. Newt steps out into the hall to speak with her, and Tina hears their whispered conversation. She turns her wrath on her husband when he reenters the room, and he endures it with the same quiet stoicism shown this entire time before he retreats to his case to feed and care for his creatures. Tina simmers in silence until her anger collapses and she's left bitter and alone.

"This isn't your fault, Tina."

Newt's voice is hardly above a whisper, but it pierces the dark and makes her wince as if he'd yelled. She stiffens and makes to roll away from him, but a broad hand prevents her. "No. Tina, talk to me."

"You don't say no to me, Newton Scamander," she hisses, tension bubbling over, and she knows it's a mistake when his hand curls into a fist. He sits up in one sharp motion and turns to face her. In the low light of the room, Tina can see that his face is twisted, as though trying and failing to subdue some great and powerful emotion.

"I do say no to you," he says, voice pitched so lethally low that she subconsciously raises a hand to cover her vulnerable throat. "I say no because you cannot continue to blame yourself. You shouldered the burden when you conceived, convinced that it was a physical shortcoming when I had forgotten the risk entirely. Now you take the blame for what you perceive as a failure on the part of your body, and I have supported that weight without complaint. I have held you up and allowed you a perfectly natural time of mourning, but Tina—if you turn away from me now, then I can no longer carry the both of us."

He stops to breathe raggedly, eyes boring into her face. When she can only open her mouth and stare, he clenches his jaw and nods once, sharply.

Newt flings back the blankets to stalk from the room and the door snaps emphatically shut behind him. Tina flinches and stares at the barrier between them until her eyes prickle. Then she swallows the bitter recognition of her own shortcomings and goes after him.

He's leaning against the window glass again, face painted in high-contrast shadows by the street-lamp outside. Newt doesn't acknowledge her when she calls his name softly, and it isn't until she steps close and places a hand on his shoulder that he makes any move at all—to flinch at the contact and swallow loudly. He leans away from her with a sigh, temporarily fogging the glass.

Tina determinedly steps close, until the swell of her hip and breast press into the rigid line of his body. She sets her jaw and doesn't move, intent on staying like this all day, until her exasperating, patient, wonderfully stubborn husband throws over his snit in favor of talking.

"I loved you first," he says when Tina's knees and jaw have started to ache. She watches him blink as if surprised by the sound of his own voice, before continuing. "I loved you first, Tina. Do you understand?" His hands curl into fists, his jaw clenched in a rictus of pain, and she holds her breath.

He turns to her suddenly, and Tina falls back a step when she realizes that what she'd thought was anger, is actually a deep and raw hurt. He meets her eyes, and his fill with tears, sea-foam green turned black by the harsh lighting from without. His lips press together in a trembling line until he looks up at the ceiling, seeming to draw strength from the blank expanse of white.

"The only thing more certain in life than death, Tina, is loss. A farmer plants a crop and it's blown away by a storm; a child loses her parent to illness or injury. An animal is born and its mother is snatched away by a predator before the offspring is self-sufficient." He speaks reflectively as if commenting on the weather. Tina's heart clenches and she takes a small step back. Newt doesn't appear to notice.

"It's as constant to life as taxes or the weather," he goes on. He lowers his head to look at her then, and his cheeks are wet with tears. "You know what else is constant, Tina? Perhaps even more constant than death and loss combined? Hope. A farmer replants his seed the next season because he hopes for a better outcome. A child perseveres through the loss of a parent because they hope that eventually, the pain will become tolerable. An animal endures the challenges of cruel nature because it hopes to live, and perhaps someday to carry on the species."

He swallows and moves closer to her until Tina can feel the puff of his breath on her face. He gazes at her features before brushing a thumb over her cheek—and Tina is only now realizing that she's crying along with him, and her chest aches with the knowledge of his pain. She sways desperately into his hand and he chokes before pulling her to him, roughly burying his face in her hair.

"Every mother in nature endures this at some time or other, either through predation or blind chance. My Erumpent was pregnant when I found her, but the stress of those circumstances caused her to reabsorb her own offspring. This is why our planned journey to Africa is so essential—mating, for her, is entirely necessary, and not just to carry on the species. Even she has some understanding of the concept of hope, Tina. Do you understand?"

Tina isn't sure she does, but she nods anyway. He sighs shakily and his hand strokes her back, over and over until she relaxes against him. "There'll be more chances," he promises in a rough voice, and Tina closes her eyes. "One of your authors has famously said, 'familiarity breeds contempt—and children'. Despite this challenge, we have no contempt for each other. So, we must surely breed the other thing, and I can't imagine that will be much of a chore. Do you?"

Tina doesn't want to laugh but she does anyway because he's right—she is sore and angry and hurt, but she doesn't have any contempt for him, and she certainly doesn't hate him. She isn't even angry at or hurt by him, she realizes slowly; it's the situation entirely. It's the sense of loss and the blame directed toward herself she can't seem to overcome or reconcile. It's the blind chance of the entire situation that rubs: hope bred and tentatively accepted, only to be taken cruelly away.

"How do you do that?" she asks, and he makes a sound in her ear that could be called laughter if she were feeling generous. "How do you always manage to say the right thing?"

"I don't," he chokes, and this time he does laugh—low and gravelly, and without an ounce of rancor. "I don't know, Tina. I guess I just try to limit worry and hope for the best."

"Worrying means you suffer twice," she muses and kisses his cheek. He hums and shifts so that her lips press more firmly against him. "Will there really be more?" she asks softly, and he nods.

"Yes, Tina. There will be more, down the road, if you wish it. We can...try again...whenever you want. The curse of expectation is yours to carry, so I leave this decision in your wholly capable hands."

"Well, that really makes me look forward to it," she answers dryly, and he chuckles. Tina's sense of relief is so sharp and profound that she feels momentarily dizzy, and he holds her tighter when she sways where she stands.

"You must sleep," he murmurs, sounding entirely himself for the first time in weeks, and Tina relaxes into him with a low sound. "Come along, love. Let's put you to bed."

Tina's suddenly exhausted, no longer buoyed by grief or sheer determination. He helps her across the room until they reach the couch—where he bends and scoops her up, carrying her like a sleeping child. She folds her willowy limbs into herself while he presses a damp kiss to her forehead, tucking her into bed. Tina closes her eyes as he embraces her from behind.

They sleep through dawn and well into the morning. They sleep through birdsong and the rush of traffic, and through Queenie curiously tip-toeing through the apartment, wondering why they aren't at breakfast. They sleep until they wake naturally, blinking their eyes open to noon sunshine and smiling at each other as if the previous two weeks hadn't happened—as if Tina doesn't feel betrayed by her body, and Newt doesn't feel as though he has to be strong for them both.

They eat Queenie's food and the blond smiles beatifically when Tina touches her wrist, feather-light, and there's no pain behind it. Later, Newt helps Tina into her blazer and takes her to their new favorite bookstore. There are whiskey and conversation before a low fire that evening—dreams of their future, and plans for their impending trip to Africa, and more besides. They don't speak of children.

Tina sleeps next to Newt every night, and his touch is always chaste. She loves him for this. May gives way to June sunshine and thunder, and every night their nocturnal activities are limited to resting. July starts with celebrations and ticker-tape parades, and still, he doesn't push or plead.

Mid-July brings oppressive heat and cooling storms, and at the height of one, Tina pulls him into bed and implores him to touch. He does, and it's much like the first time all over again: quiet acceptance and time spent in discovery. She urges him to remain right where he is when he crests, and Newt happily obliges.

Afterwards, she spends her time tracing his scars and freckles, an activity they both enjoy. Tina moves her hand to his hair and he opens his eyes wide to watch her. "I think I'm starting to feel better," she muses, and he kisses her gently.

"As long as there is life—there is hope." A simple construct, she reflects, but for Newt it seems to encompass everything.

"Yes," Tina agrees with a smile, and he mouths her skin until they are both soft and pliant with sleep. Then he holds her close, and she drifts off on a surge of hope for the future—and love.