Fitz just stood there and watched Jonathan leave, shuffling his feet and playing with his sleeves. He didn’t say anything, couldn’t more rather, a lump was stuck in his throat and he was too mortified than anything to speak; soon the hallway was just him and Skye, and his face was red as a tomato and he couldn’t look her in the face. He stared at the ground like a child getting punished, more tears starting to slide down his face. Everything went terrible, it was all disastrous, he had this whole thing planned and it wasn’t even real. Fitz was trembling, his teeth digging into his lower lip.
What Skye did next was tug Fitz into her office by the arm, closing and locking the door after her. “Asshole,” she scoffed under her breath before turning to the ever-silent, motionless Fitz. Making him talk about his feelings would’ve potentially made him more mortified, be salt-in-wounds, even, so she decided against, instead reaching to tilt his chin up to wipe a tear away with her thumb. “I really want to punch him in the face, but he’d probably enjoy it,” she said with a soft smile, “It’s okay, you know? Been there, done that. More times than I’d like to admit. That’s how I learnt to recognise his type.”
