"Yeah," Kavinsky says, a breath of relief and understanding. Slowly, he edged across the couch. He brushed his fingers on the back of Newt's knuckles, not asking for him to look, but wanting to let him know that he understood what this meant.

"Yeah, of course," he said. "Newt, it's you. It's--it's been you for over a year. It's always going to be you, no matter what else."

There was a soft pain in his chest, a quiet loss, but it was nothing next to the quiet relief that he could, maybe, fix what he'd done. "I'll tell Peter. I doubt Jack's gonna want to talk to me anyway. I can stop dancing, too, if...? I just wanna do right with you, Newt."