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Jemma took deep breath in and out before knocking on the hotel room door.
“Fitz?”
She wiped another tear from her eye and honestly, she wasn’t sure if she wanted him to answer or not.
“It’s open.”
She steeled herself before carefully pushing the door open to reveal him sitting cross-legged in his bed, strumming at his guitar. She almost didn’t believe it when he looked up to smile at her.
“I figured you’d show up.”
She felt so exposed, so vulnerable standing before him like that, with red-rimmed eyes and clenched fists while he sat there like he hadn’t changed everything. In the end, she could only cock her head and blink at him.
“What are you doing?”
Fitz glanced up at her quickly, then cleared his throat. “I heard you talking to Trip earlier.”
“Of course I talked to him,” she said, folding her arms; “he is my manager, after all.”
“Our manager.”
“My manager,” she corrected, attempting to glare at him even as her breathing hitched. “You broke up the band, remember?”
Fitz strummed a few, simple chords and adjusted the tuning pegs. “I remember kissing you,” he said.
His nonchalance nearly took her breath away.
“Well, I would hope so, seeing as you did it in front of eighteen thousand people! And our headliner, by the way. Raina is furious!”
He smiled at that, a quick upturn of the corners of his mouth as he refused to look up at her.
“Fitz,” she begged, “please, just talk to me.”
It seemed a lifetime before he looked up at her. “Trip was right, you know.”
She scoffed at him. “That she’s probably going to sue us? How can you—”
“Not that.”
“What, then?”
“Men don’t forget that easily.”
Her heart stopped for a moment as her mind whirled, trying to process his words. How did he—she shook her head to clear it.
“Do you spy on every woman who declares her love to you?”
Fitz pursed his lips, as if considering. “Well, so far it’s just been you, so—”
“Ugh, Fitz!” She rubbed at her eyes with the heels of her hands. “You can’t just dissolve our partnership and then kiss me a hour later!”
He strummed a few more chords and nodded approvingly at the pitch.
“Fitz?”
He closed his eyes. “Just, let me show you this song, alright?”
She took in a deep, ragged breath. “Fitz, I—”
He cut her off with the steady notes of his guitar as he strummed something slow.
I know you think all men are weak
I know I stutter when I speak
But I don’t know how you can think
That women love the longest
He sang a simple melody, but she found herself drawn to it, and before she knew it, she was sitting down on the bed beside him.
“Fitz, I don’t know what you’re doing, but—”
‘Cause here I do what I can do
So I can stand right next to you
I sing until my lips are blue
And try to be the strongest
“But all I said was—”
Some people want fortune
Some people want fame
Some people want thousands
To scream out their name
But I write my songs and
I sing them for you
Don’t say I’m not true
I’ve loved none but you
“Fitz!”
The song came screeching to a stop when she grabbed both of his hands, then held them together in hers. Finally, finally, his blue eyes flicked up to her, waiting.
“Fitz,” she said, “I told you I loved you, and you said that we didn’t have a future. I was upset! I didn’t mean—”
She was interrupted by his lips on hers, and her hands moved of their own accord, releasing his hands and traveling to his chest, to his neck, to the soft curls at the back of his head. When his hands found her waist, she lost herself in him. It was a relief to kiss him, like breathing after holding her breath for too long, like finding solid ground after walking in a tight rope. When he broke the kiss and rested his forehead against hers, she couldn’t help but smile.
“I know I was unfair and weak,” he said, trying to catch his breath, “but I’m not walking out on you again, Jemma. You’ll have to walk out on me.”
She rubbed her thumb against the stubble on his cheek and felt him lean into her touch.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she said.
It really was a supreme joy to watch his face light up like that. It was so rare to see him this happy, and such a privilege to know that is was because of her.
“Good,” he said, extracting herself from her grasp as she heard herself groan.
He retrieved his guitar and produced a rumpled sheet of paper, which he handed to her. She thought she saw his eyes sparkle.
“There are two more verses.”
He started the song over, but she joined him this time, adding her airy soprano to his soft tenor. Everyone said that they were meant to make music together, but this time she could feel it deep in her bones in a way that seemed familiar. She laid her head on his shoulder as she joined him for the chorus.
But I write my songs and
I sing them for you
Don’t say I’m not true
I’ve loved none but you
There were tears in her eyes, but she kept singing, floating through harmonies the way they always did, the way they always would. Because after all, he was singing for her.
And she was singing for him, too.