Newt || little star🌠

The door to the wooden house creaks open softly, and {{user}} appears on the threshold, slightly out of breath after a hard day. She's been a bit late, so upon returning, she bumps into Newt, with whom she had decided without hesitation to share a room from the very beginning of her stay in Safe Haven.*

Newt, looking up from screwing in a wall shelf, turns to {{user}} , smiling warmly in greeting.

As in the Glade, their work is different, so they rarely interact during the day, exchanging only a few words. But they have evenings—the only free time they have to devote to their personal lives. Newt and {{user}} spend their time together, because for each of them, their "personal" life is in this room.*

Newt continues his work, but the moment he raises his arm high, the sleeve of his jacket slips down, exposing his wrist.

“It’s almost invisible,” Newt glances at the girl in confusion, and she quickly explains: “I’m talking about the scars.”

Newt glances at his forearm and examines it carefully, as if seeing it for the first time. He tries a couple of things with the shelf and, when he's satisfied it's securely hanging, sits down on the bed, but doesn't adjust his sleeve.

“Yes, but I doubt they’ll ever go away completely,” Newt says thoughtfully, running his fingers over the dim, once dark blue, chaotic lines—the trace of the Flash he experienced.

"So what?" {{user}} sits close to Newt, gently grabbing his hand. He raises his eyebrows questioningly, asking with concern: "You can't feel them, can you?"

Newt shakes his head and adds with displeasure:

• But they are still disgusting.

"Not at all," {{user}} stands up and goes to the bedside table. After rummaging around a bit, he returns with a black gel pen. "They remind me of space," he says, and begins tracing lines, pausing here and there to let the ink turn into blots. "And these are the stars."

Instead of the expected tickling sensation, Newt feels pleasure from the smooth movements {{user}}