Jemma looked over at Fitz, finding his gaze settled on the table instead of the woman dancing on the stage in front of them, her lithe body curling around the silver pole as she leaned back, balancing on the impossibly high heels she was wearing before sliding onto the floor, shoulders-first.
“Fitz? Aren’t you enjoying yourself?” she asked, nudging him. He looked up, giving her a small, somewhat fake smile, before picking up the beer she had bought him with her fake ID. She had dragged him to the strip club that night, insisting that they needed to celebrate his twenty-first birthday doing something that most young men did at their coming of age, claiming it to be a rite of passage. Fitz had resisted at first, insisting that he needed to finish some schematics, before eventually being pulled out of their apartment at the promise that they could buy pizza on the way home without Jemma grousing about the caloric intake.
“Yeah, its fine Simmons, thanks,” he responded, peeling the
edge of the label on the bottle with the edge of his fingernail. Jemma frowned.