I'm sorry. I can't make it tonight.

By the time she was supposed to meet Fitz for their date– their 20th date, the date– Jemma had read and re-read Fitz's text dozens of times, trying to decipher the hidden meaning behind the cold and impersonal words. She had tried his number at least twice as many times, but the calls went straight to voicemail.

He had never cancelled on her before, and he always picked up when she called. It made no sense– how could he be ghosting her today, of all days? They were supposed to take their relationship to the next level, after the longest and most ridiculously unnecessary self-imposed dry-spell in the history of mankind. She'd spent ages picking an outfit– and lingerie, damn it! It really begged the question– why? She knew he was nervous about it– his stubborn refusal to forget about the deal entirely was telling enough– but after 19 dates and 19 make-out sessions, she was reasonably confident that Dr. Leopold Fitz was interested in her that way.

With a muffled groan of frustration, she picked up her phone and dialed his number one last time, pushing the 'Cancel' button as soon as his voicemail picked up.

Well, then. He left her no choice. And if he thought she would give up so easily, he didn't know her at all.

"Hi," Jemma said, forcing a bright smile on her face the moment Fitz cracked the door open.

"Jemma. I– I wasn't expecting you." Fitz took a step back, allowing her to push the door open wider, while he scratched at the side of his face and looked utterly panicked. "I'm sorry– like I said, I'm just not feeling well tonight."

"Well, then, I'm happy to take care of you," she said, smiling her Stepford Wife smile, and stepped inside before he had a chance to dismiss her. "Did you know I've never actually been inside your apartment? You've come to mine at least a dozen times–"

"Well, I like you apartment," Fitz shrugged uneasily.

She looked around, smiling at the dozens of little monkeys she could spot hiding in every nook and recess. "I like yours, too," she said, trailing her fingers along a row of hardcover graphic novels, artfully arranged by color and size. The hardwood floor squeaked under her heels as she walked around the room.

Suddenly, she frowned. "What happened to carpeting your floors?"

"Huh, the plan fell through," he said with a grimace. "One of the workers fell ill and– I should probably reschedule."

"Mmhmm," she answered, dubious, and continued her shameless snooping around the living room, coming to a halt in front of the cardboard box lying against the wall in the hallway that led to the bedroom. "What's this?"

Fitz followed her gaze and became ostensibly paler. Before he had a chance to answer, Jemma bent down, plunging a hand in the box to retrieve a few DVD boxes.

"No– no that's not–" Fitz tried to grab them from her hands, but she stepped back and out of reach. They began a weird dance, one step forward, two steps back, him chasing her across his apartment while she waltzed inches from his grasp.

"Iron Wang," Jemma read in a theatrical voice, her eyebrows shooting to her hairline, and sent the box flying through the room. "The Incredible Cunt. Nice," she said acidly. The box hit the floor with a bang. "Tent-Man." Another bang. "Wow, you're really into superheroes, aren't you?"

"Jemma, I–" he said, his voice pleading and pathetic. "They're not even mine– I swear–"

Jemma snorted. "Right. You're just storing them for a friend."

"Something like that, yeah." Fitz squeezed his eyes shut, looking pained.

She shook her head, staring at the floor for a moment before she wrestled her eyes back up. "Look, I don't even–" she sighed, rolling her eyes. "So, you like porn. Lots of people like porn. What I don't understand–" She paused and combed her fingers through her hair in a nervous gesture, remembering too late she'd spent ages wrestling with Daisy's curling iron, dolling herself up for him. "We went on 19 dates, Fitz. 19. We made out for hours and hours and you barely even tried to feel me up. So, what is this supposed to mean? Are you more interested in movies than the real thing? Are you addicted to hardcore pornography?"

"No," he said, and had the gall to sound offended. "Jemma– it's not what it looks like at all."

"So, I'm just not pretty enough for you?" she asked, her breath leaving her at the realisation. It was her, then. She just wasn't doing it for him. "Are my breasts too small? Do I look too vanilla or–"

"Stop," Fitz huffed. "Please. It's nothing like that. You're bloody perfect, Jemma."

"Oh, so you respect me too much to see me as a sexual being, is that it?" She sounded raucous to her own ears– shrill and wounded.

"Don't be ridiculous," he replied, his voice raising to match hers. "Of course I see you as a sexual being! How could I not?"

"Then why?" she asked, and to her horror, she could feel tears streaming down her face. "Why don't you want me ? Why do you get yourself all worked up making out with me and then go home to spend some quality time with– The Fantastic Foursome," she spat, and gave the box a good, satisfying kick.

"You don't understand–"

"Then explain it to me," she exploded.

"I can't," Fitz shouted at the top of his lungs. "I can't. I tried, but I can't," he repeated, softer this times, and when their eyes met, his were full of tears too.

He was the nicest, most interesting and appealing guy she'd met in ages– maybe ever, and here they were, both tearful, frustrated and horrified. Even now, she could still feel the draw he had on her– that same sense of inexplicable, inevitable attraction she'd felt the first time she'd met him at the store. Only this time it twisted her insides and made her want to roll into a ball and cry.

This wasn't her. Dr. Jemma Simmons didn't break down over some guy not liking her enough. She was made of sturdier stuff than this. Or at least, she liked to think so.

"Alright," she murmured. "Okay. I think we're done here," she said, daring him to contradict her– and desperately wishing he would.

Instead, the silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. She counted to 20 in her head– it was their number after all, their lucky number, she thought bitterly– and only then did she find the courage to let go. It was greatly satisfying to disturb all that deafening quiet by slamming the the door behind her.

Fitz only unfroze when he heard Jemma's engine starting– the next moment, he was jumping into his sneakers and running outside and straight to the bike shed. His hands were shaky and stiff as he fumbled with the chain before he finally managed to open the lock, and then he was launching himself straight into the evening traffic.

He barely registered the honking and the screamed curses as he slalomed between the rows of cars, his mind and body working together for once, entirely focused on his sole objective– finding Jemma to fix this. Twice, he was almost knocked over by a car attempting to switch lanes, but still, he kept going as fast as his legs would allow.

The cosmos was with him, for once, and the traffic appeared to be stalled. It had to be a crash– if his mother ever found out he had once thought of someone else's car accident as a stroke of luck, she would probably shout his ears off.

Soon, he caught a glimpse of Jemma's Prius, stuck in the unmoving middle lane, and in a few moments, he had caught up with her. Dropping his bike, he knocked on her car window with metronomic regularity until she finally gave in. With an overblown sigh, she climbed out of her car and stood opposite him, her arms crossed over her chest.

"It's not what you think," he said, adamant. He was breathless from his mad bike dash, but he couldn't let that stop him now. "I swear, Jemma, I'm not– like that. Hunter gave me all that stuff because he thought I needed it. Because–"

"I'm listening," Jemma said impatiently as Fitz gulped, searching for his words.

"You're… you're perfect. You're everything I've ever wanted," he said, hoping she could discern the truth under all the panic and nervousness. "It's me– I don't think I can– I don't think I'm good enough. For you."

"You don't get to decide that all on your own," she huffed. "And that's not an explanation, Fitz."

"But it's the truth," he said beggingly.

"You know, I could tell something was wrong." Jemma began pacing. "I tried to ignore it– I wanted to ignore it. At first I thought it was just, you know– sexual frustration. But then you ignored all the openings I gave you and I realized, it had to be more than that. Worse." Her eyes kept darting from him to the asphalt. "I've had my theories, although I must say, 'secret porn fiend' didn't once cross my mind. I thought you were married and struggling to honor your vows, or a widower, maybe. Or an ordained priest of some sort. Or a spy whose ethics wouldn't allow you to seduce me under an assumed identity." She laughed sadly, and it sounded almost like a sob. "Or, you know. Waiting for marriage."

She must have heard Fitz's sharp intake of breath, then, because she stopped talking altogether and frowned, as her inquisitive eyes searched his face for more untold truths.

"You– are you?" she asked, incredulous.

"Waiting for marriage? No," he replied, shaking his head, his own gaze cast down. "But I– Oh, God. Yes. I'm a virgin." He squeezed his eyes shut time, then blinked several times. "There, I said it. My big shameful secret."

It felt so odd, as if every frenzied particule of his being had suddenly screeched to a halt. He wasn't sure if he'd just liberated himself from a gigantic boulder weighing over his head, or if he had just been crushed by it.

Jemma was very quiet. Her eyes had gone wide as saucers, but at least she wasn't laughing in his face.

"It's not by choice, mind you," he said with a self-deprecating smirk. "Although I can't say I've really gone out of my way to make it happen."

At that, Jemma snorted despite herself, before shaking her head and gesturing for him to continue.

"But I'm– I'm terrified," he said in a forlorn chuckle. "I'm terrified of mucking it up. I'm terrified of being crap at it…" He paused to wipe his wet cheeks and clear his throat, forcing himself to make eye-contact, no matter how devastating it was to watch her expression bounce from sadness to confusion and back. "Over the years, I convinced myself it wasn't something I was interested in. Of course, these past weeks with you–" He was blushing now, blushing and crying and vomiting words all over her like the complete human disaster he was. "I'm just so scared of disappointing you."

"I can't believe you," she said, her voice tight like a rope, and took a step forward to punch his shoulder.

"Ow." He rubbed at the soft ache in an absent-minded gesture. "You're upset," he stated blandly, his stomach twisting.

"Of course I'm upset!" she cried. "You let me believe you had some deep, dark secret you had to keep from me! Something awful enough to end this. To end us. But this– this isn't even bad. It just– is." She shook her head as if to clear it, and when she talked again, her voice was small and soft and fragile. "How could you possibly believe it would make me love you any less?"

Fitz went very still. It felt like being punched in the gut and having a stroke and falling into a pit all at once, only the shock immediately gave way to a pure, overwhelming joy. All his insides were swelling with it, so much he would certainly burst any minute.

"I love you," he said, suddenly breathless. "I didn't plan to– I didn't think it would ever happen to me. And now I– I don't know what to do with it," he confessed, smiling shyly. "I'm so scared to lose you."

"I just want to be with you," she said, blinking tears away while her lips stretched into a wide, heartfelt smile." We'll figure out the rest as we go, okay?"

He nodded– that was all he could do. He felt like he had lost the ability to form words, and even if he hadn't, surely his voice couldn't carry through the thick, enveloping cloud of relief that had settled around him.

"No more secrets," she said, her voice muffled.

Jemma knew, and she loved him.

Jemma was in his arms and she was kissing his forehead, his cheek, his nose, the length of his jaw, like she had almost lost him and she could barely stand it.

"You two need to get a room," someone shouted from their car's half-open window. "Whether you fuck in it or not isn't anybody's business, so I suggest you stop clogging traffic and finish this conversation somewhere else, alright?"

"He has a point," Fitz murmured against her mouth, lighter and happier than he could remember ever feeling. "We should probably move."

"Maybe," she shrugged, and when their eyes met, hers were dancing. "But together, yeah?"

When they went home– to her place, because they were a couple there, whereas in his apartment, he felt like a hermit and she wasn't quite sure where she fit in it yet– nothing much happened. They didn't jump into bed. They didn't argue. They didn't make anymore heartfelt declarations of love. But the wheels inside Jemma's brain kept turning.

All her adult life, people had told Jemma she had no tact and she didn't get basic human psychology. They were all wrong. Well, perhaps she had little tact, but she did understand people– or at least, she understood Fitz. Once she had the missing data, everything started making sense, like pieces solving a puzzle. It was clear to her that sex was a tiny part of a larger problem– this warped view he had of himself, his anxiety, his struggle with self-worth. She didn't know how to get to the root of that, or how to help him move past it, and it was probably not up to her, anyway. But she could bide her time. She wanted him to trust that she loved him, and that he had nothing to be scared of.

They kept dating, finding a whole new routine: movies on Mondays, takeout on Thursdays, supper on Saturdays– often as a double date with Daisy and Lincoln. When he stayed the night, they slept entwined and they marathoned a show together on Sunday morning.

Tip-toeing around the issue wasn't easy. Ignoring her own needs and his obvious interest while they were making out wasn't either, but Jemma felt the issue was entirely his to breach, and she was afraid of spooking him once more.

They were having dinner in the same Italian restaurant he'd taken her on their first date, weeks after they'd started over, when he cleared his throat and grabbed her hand under the table, taking her off guard.

"I've been thinking about us. About… it."

"You have?" she asked tentatively, searching his face. He looked a little nervous, but also hopeful. Impatient, even.

"Yeah. I have. Pretty much constantly, I must say." He squeezed her hand, staring back intently. "I've been waiting for– something, I'm not sure what. An epiphany. A vibe. A sign from the bloody cosmos. And perhaps that's the problem. Overthinking it."

"It certainly doesn't help," she concurred, biting her lip. He wasn't the only one obsessing about the sex they weren't having. She worried he'd set impossible standards in his head, both for her and for himself, and that whatever he was expecting, the reality could only disappoint him.

"Maybe we should stop thinking altogether–"

"–and just do," she smiled. "Of course."

Fitz licked his lips, watching her with evident trepidation. "So, what do you say, Dr. Simmons?"

"I say…" She took a sip of wine, concentrating on the taste rather than the butterflies going nuts in her belly. "Let's get a doggy bag and finish this conversation in a more intimate setting."

Fitz's smile was a little tremulous when he nodded, his eyes piercing through her, and purposefully downed his own glass before he gestured for the waitress.

They had kissed hundred of times, perhaps thousands, but never like this. Never so intently. As Fitz backed her up inside the apartment, his hands gripping her hips, she pushed his jacket off his shoulders and blindly undid his tie, grazing the shell of his ear with her teeth just to hear him gasp.

When they reached his bedroom, he seemed at a loss for a moment, before he blinked away the flicker of vulnerability she'd glimpsed in his eyes. His grip on her waist tightening, he pushed her up against the wall, stepping between her legs and kissing her as if there were no tomorrow.

"Are you sure this is what you want?" she asked, breathless, forcing her hands to stay still around his shoulders.

"I am." Fitz nodded, his eyes brimming with a tangle of contradictory emotions. "I mean, if you want–"

"I do want," Jemma said so fast he chuckled, touching his forehead to hers.

"I'm not sure I–"

"I know."

"I'm really–"

"I know, Fitz." Her hand settle on his jaw, her fingers grazing the bristle as she caught his mouth in a sweet, slow kiss. "No thinking, remember?"

"It's just– I want you so much," he breathed, sending a thrill of heat and delight coursing down her body.

"And I want you," she said, closing the distance to nip softly at his lower lip, sucking in his sigh.

He hummed against her lips, initiating another urgent, scorching kiss, while his hands patted awkwardly down her back.

"It opens on the side," she said, before she slid down the zipper of her dress and kicked off her heels. Moments later, she was standing in her underwear, and Fitz had gone very still, his eyes bugging out slightly.

"I'll choose to take that as a compliment," she grinned, and grabbed his hands, setting them down on each side of her waist.

Fitz cleared his throat, detaching his eyes from her chest with evident difficulty. "Just to clarify," he said, his voice breaking, "you want to have sex with me."

"If that's alright with you, yeah," she said coyly, barely resisting the urge to grab his hands again and reposition them directly on her breasts. She was hellbent on following his lead and not rushing him in any way, but if he intended to maintain this leisurely pace, she might not survive the night.

"May I–"

"Please," she gasped, looking down to watch his long finger trail up her torso with excruciating slowness. When he finally cupped her breasts, the heat of his palm sent a shiver down her spine. He was looking at her intently, with an air of deep concentration she'd seen many times on him in entirely different contexts.

"Is this okay?"

"Mmhmm," she breathed.

Fitz frowned, tilting his head to the side. "Tell me what you want."

"Take it off," she demanded. "Please."

In his defense, he tried to wrestle the clasp open for a full minute, hissing and huffing in frustration, before he forfeited and looked up piteously.

"I think it's broken," he said defeated.

"Ugh, Fitz," she said, rolling her eyes as she easily undid the latch. "This from a man who assembles electronic devices smaller than my pinkie's nailfor fun."

But Fitz wasn't paying attention to what she was saying anymore. He appeared to be… transfixed. It was quite pleasing, really, to be able to overwhelm his brilliant brain just by standing there and showing a little skin.

"You really like breasts, don't you?" Jemma grinned and arched her back a little more to enhance his view.

He made an indistinct sound of approbation as he cupped her in his hands, a look of surprised wonder on his face.

"What is it?" she asked, curious.

"Nothing, it's just, it doesn't feel like I thought it would at all."

"What did you think it felt like?"

"I don't know, I guess like– like bags of sand?"

With great difficulty, she stifled her bubbling laughter. "I hope you're not too disappointed."

Fitz hummed in response, ghosting caresses over her skin with the tip of his fingers, maddeningly soft.

"I'm not gonna break, you know," she said pointedly, torn between her commitment to his pace and her needy restlessness.

"Would be a shame to break these," he muttered. Then his lips replaced his hands and all the air went straight out of Jemma's lungs. Her knees started wobbling, and she worried they wouldn't carry her much longer.

"Could we move this to the bed?" she asked. Next thing she knew, Jemma was lying flat on the bed and Fitz was slowly rendering her insane with his slow exploration of her body. She might have been embarrassed by the needy sounds continuously coming out of her mouth, if for the air of giddy satisfaction and pride etched on Fitz's features.

"You look like you're having fun," she breathed, fighting to keep her voice steady.

"Huh-huh," he conceded, reluctantly tearing his mouth away from her skin. "Turns out, I'm better at this than I thought."

Jemma gave a bark of a laugh, and he responded with another radiant smile.

"Fair enough," she grinned. "But what about my fun?"

Fitz's face rapidly decomposed. "You– I thought this was–"

"Yes," she was quick to assure him, "absolutely. But look at you," she said, bunching the fabric of his shirt. "You're fully dressed."

From the moment she started unbuttoning his shirt, his nervousness returned in full force and his entire demeanour changed. Gone was the playful, joyous, self-satisfied Fitz– his limbs had gone rigid, and he seemed to be bunching himself, bracing before every touch, ready to jump right out of his skin.

Jemma sat back on her heels and frowned. "You know, we can stop, if you like," she offered. "We could watch a movie or something. Start again later. Or not. It's entirely up to you."

"No, no, I'm okay," he said, his tone adamant, if slightly shaky. "Just– pretty worked up."

"Well, I should hope so." Jemma did her best not to roll her eyes to the heavens. "You've been making out for half an hour with a practically naked woman. And in case you couldn't tell from all the sex noises, I'm quite worked up as well!"

"Yeah, but–"

"No buts. You need to stop worrying over this, Fitz. It's not like the movies," she said, ignoring his groan. 'The movies' were still a murky area they tended to steer clear from. "We can finish and start again. I'm fairly certain your erection will return, eventually." Again, she disregarded his embarrassed huffing sounds. "Besides, we could only do foreplay tonight. That's fine by me."

"No," he said, shaking his head vehemently.

She sighed. "You just want to be done with it? Is that it?"

He thought it over for a few long seconds. "Yes, and no. I like this. Everything we've been doing. I really love your sex noises," he admitted with a tight smile, earning a smirk from her. "But I don't think I can– it would feel too much like a failure to stop."

"Okay, then," she said with a slight shrug. "We'll make it work."

"What are you doing?" he asked in a panicked voice when she scooted down his body and started working on his belt.

"Taking the edge off," she said with a defiant smile. "The night's still young."

Some time later, Jemma crawled up Fitz's body to lay her head on his chest. He barely seemed to register her movement, slack-faced and spent as he was. After a beat, his arm wrapped around her, his fingers buried in her hair, and she instantly felt swaddled in his warmth, lulled by the thumping of his heart. She could have cried from the sheer pleasure of finally knowing this degree of intimacy with him– she'd been craving it for too long.

"Are you alright?" she asked, idly running her fingers over his skin.

"I don't know," he replied, his eyes still shut. "Am I dead? Because it feels like I'm dead."

Amused, Jemma patted his shoulder. "You'll bounce back, more quickly than you think, in all probability. I have faith in you."

"I feel like I should thank you," he said, his smile plainly audible in his voice.

"Please don't," she snickered. "I assure you, what I've just done? It wasn't nearly as altruistic as you seem to believe."

"What about– reciprocation? Don't you want me to–"

"I'm good," she shrugged. "For now."

They kept quiet for long, pleasantly idle minutes, until Fitz tentatively asked, "Do you want to kiss some more?"

Jemma immediately inched closer. "Yes, please."

The kissing was lazy and languid at first, a slow exploration turning more heated as he recovered. Fitz's hands were growing more confident as they roamed her body, and she could almost sense the moment he felt ready to move things along as anticipation overcame the last of his fears–finally.

"Fitz," she said, her breath catching in her throat. She wanted to look him in the eye, to be as connected as two human beings could be. He raised his forehead from hers, looking down at her with wonder and awe. "You're not a virgin anymore."

"I know." His boyish smile was blinding, and she vowed to commit it to memory before he bent his head down to kiss the tip of her nose, the corner of her lips, her fluttering eyelids.

When she knotted her legs around his waist, he gasped so loudly it sounded like a yelp. His mouth drew a thin line as he began gritting his teeth, his eyes squeezed shut in concentration. He remained eerily still for longer than Jemma thought even possible in such situations.

"It's okay to move, you know?"

"I don't think that's a very good idea," he replied, his voice strained. Sweat was pearling on his forehead and his arms were shaking with the exertion of keeping still.

"Ugh, Fitz," she huffed. "We've been over this," she said, and rolled her own hips just to spite him.

"Not the only thing soon to be over, then," he warned.

"Whatever happened to 'stop thinking, just do'?"

"I can't believe you're arguing with me now," he groaned. "Now!"

Then, losing his battle against himself, he began to move against her, bending his head to drop sloppy kisses along her throat. Fitz, it turned out, was very good at following directions, surprisingly focused and really quite invested in the end game– it was a good thing, she thought idly, that he enjoyed her sex noises.

"Your feet are freezing," Fitz mumbled.

"Mmhmm." She kept on lazily tracing lines up and down his calf with her foot.

"That really happened, didn't it?" he asked sleepily, while Jemma pulled the sheet up on both of them and settled in, kissing his shoulder and slipping her fingers between his. She couldn't seem to stop touching him, and he all but purred with each new touch.

"Yes, it really did," she said, biting a smile. "I can testify, if needed."

"Don't even joke about that." Fitz stifled a yawn and stretched an arm. "There's a good chance Hunter will try interrogating you, and he's not nearly as subtle as he thinks he is."

"It's sweet, though. How invested he is."

"Nearly cost me you, though," in a would-be grumpy tone that came out half-wistful, half-exhausted.

"Dramatic, much?" Jemma cupped his jaw, enjoying the feel of scruff under her palm. "I'm afraid you're stuck with me, Dr. Fitz."

"Whatever did I do to deserve this?" he replied in mock affliction. "I was just doing my job, minding my own business and then–"

"Hush, now," she said, before she shut him up properly with another kiss.