Part 1 of 3. For those of you who can't handle suspense for a day or so, AO3 has them up already.


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The book embodies him.

She's close enough to the pages to note the faint scent of pine, parchment and travel, close enough to marvel at the crisp texture of the smooth vellum. The black and white type are somehow so much more than words on a page. The author's heart—immense, warm, and tender—dots every "i" and crosses every "t".

The trees are dancing with No-Maj electric fireflies as she flips the pages of the book under the flickering street lamp. Central Park is bitterly cold at night, but the swirl of darkness and twinkling small lights feels somehow like a fairy tale when he's nearby—she's unafraid. She doesn't want to go home. Tina, though she's wont to admit it, wants to keep flipping these pages forever, engrossed in the adventures she's never had the opportunity for.

"This is wonderful. And today—today was fun," she hums self-consciously, unable to look at him:

Newt, who seems to grow more wonderful with every moment, who, on his second visit to America, somehow causes more palpitations than his first. (Though they're of a different nature.)

The day was like magic. Too much to ask for. Tina never knew Newt could smile like that, tossing peanut shells at elephants. Tina never knew she could laugh like that, watching one curl its trunk around his scarf.

She's on the last page, her hands brushing over the bound spine, when he moves close on the bench. It's too soon. It's too soon to end the magic. Tina flips hurriedly to the front again, tracing the words, pretending to be engrossed in the words. Anything to extend this moment. She hopes it's not too much to ask.

"So, who's the mystery woman you're thanking in the last line, Mr. Scamander?" Tina tries a small chuckle.

A warm hand meets her wrist, tentative, brushing her pulse point.

"It's you."

His voice quavers with sincerity.

She can't see the flush of his face, but the dip of his chin, the self-conscious, frustrated press of his lips, is enough.

His hand closes on her wrist fully. "I-I've thought of you often, Ms. Gol—Tina. So often, in England, in Ethiopia. All the places that didn't have… you."

She's only human, under her armor.

(She's falling.)

"Y-you're the most wonderful woman I know. Brave, strong, sacrificial, beautiful. And I hope you don't mind if I—if I—"

She's only human.

So Tina is helpless as she leans in, drawn by his gravity.

"Ever since I left that dock, I've regretted it, you know. I didn't think I would be enough." His eyes never leave hers as he cradles her cold wintry hand, pressing it to his warm, warm lips.

She feels the soft smile against her skin.

His eyes draw her in, and the small, tell-tale laughing crease at the corner creases, as if he's sharing a wonderful, fantastic secret.

"It's fairly ridiculous how perfect you are, Tina," Newt breathes.

Tina's heart seizes.

She can't.

Tina turns her head at the last moment, violently removing her hand at the next.

It slides easily out of his relaxed, surprised grip.

"Let's not," she blurts.

Let's not fall in love.

There will be heartbreak, broken promises, undue pressure, traps that are easier for the world to spring on them, when they're together. She wants to spare him those things. And Tina, she'll be fine. Has always been fine. Tina has a good thing going. She has a thing going.

(You just want to protect yourself.)

(Well, if that's true, it just proves the point, doesn't it?)

(It does.)

She's not—never was, will never be—the perfect girl Newt thinks she is. She won't have him—good, earnest—Newt, love a lie. Or, worse yet, love her, just Tina.

Tina steps back from the bench, lump in her throat, hands empty and cold.

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