Chapter 116

The first few students began to trickle in, filling the quiet room with the scrape of chairs and soft chatter. Abigail tucked her guitar back into its case, sliding it beside her desk just as the last notes of conversation died down.

Professor Shields straightened at the front of the room, smoothing the edge of her blouse as she glanced at the clock. Exactly 1:00. Her voice, when it came, was steady and professional—carrying none of the softness Abigail had heard just minutes ago.

“Good afternoon, everyone,” she began, her tone even, commanding without raising volume. “Welcome to Music History: 20th Century & Beyond. Over the course of this semester, we’ll explore the major cultural and political shifts that shaped modern music—from jazz and blues, to folk, rock, and contemporary genres you might already have on your playlists.”

A few students perked up at that, pens poised.

“We won’t just study dates and names,” Shields continued, pacing slowly across the front of the room. “We’ll listen. We’ll analyze. We’ll ask questions about why certain songs mattered, why they resonated, and how they still influence the music you hear today.”

She set her books neatly on the desk, flipping one open to a bookmarked section. “For example—Billie Holiday’s Strange Fruit. A haunting protest song. Not just a piece of art, but a weapon against silence. By the end of this course, I want you to hear music like that and understand the layers beneath it.”

The room was quiet, students scribbling. Abigail found herself leaning forward, caught in spite of herself.

“Your first assignment,” Shields said, letting her gaze drift across the room, “is to bring me one song—any genre, any artist—that you think changed something. In you, in culture, in history. Next class, we’ll share them.”

A ripple moved through the students—half excitement, half nerves. Abigail’s fingers drummed against her notebook. She already knew the song she’d pick.

The hour moved quickly. Professor Shields guided them through early jazz recordings, stopping to point out shifts in rhythm and improvisation, drawing lines between history and sound. Students filled their notebooks, some asking questions, others quietly listening as clips of Louis Armstrong and Duke Ellington echoed through the room.

By the time the lecture wound down, Shields closed her book with a decisive thud. “Remember—one song, any genre. I expect to hear why you chose it, not just the title. That’s due next class.” Her gaze swept the room, landing briefly on Abigail before she turned back to her desk.

The scrape of chairs and shuffle of bags filled the air as students filed out. Abigail slung her guitar case over her shoulder, grabbed her notebook, and slipped into the hallway. The buzz of campus picked up again—students laughing, footsteps against the tile, voices bouncing off high ceilings.

She pulled out her phone as she pushed through the doors into the sunlight. Her thumb hovered for a beat before she tapped Emma’s name.

The call picked up quickly. “Abigail?” Emma’s voice was warm, already easing the tension from the day.

“Hey, baby,” Abigail said, smiling as she crossed the quad. “Class just ended. I’m heading home now.”

“That’s good,” Emma said softly. “How was it?”

“Better once it was over,” Abigail admitted with a quiet laugh. “But I’ll tell you all about it later. Right now I want to know—do you need anything? Want anything? I can stop on the way if you do.”

There was a pause, then Emma chuckled. “Honestly? Just you. Come home.”

Abigail’s chest warmed. “That, I can do.”

She adjusted her guitar strap and quickened her pace toward the parking lot, already feeling lighter with the thought of going home to her.

The drive home was quick, the city still humming with the late-afternoon rush. Abigail carried her guitar and bag upstairs, the weight of the day lifting the moment she opened the apartment door. The smell of faint vanilla from one of Emma’s candles drifted through the air, soft and calming.

“Baby? I’m home,” Abigail called, setting her things by the couch.

“In here!” Emma’s voice floated from the bedroom.

Abigail walked softly down the hall and pushed the door open. Emma was curled under the blanket, her hair loose and her eyes heavy with rest. Abigail leaned down, brushing a tender kiss across her lips. “I’m going to get some homework done,” she whispered with a smile.

Emma’s hand caught her wrist lightly, her sleepy smile blooming. “Okay, love. Don’t work too hard.”

Abigail kissed her once more, softer this time, before straightening. “I’ll come check on you in a bit.”

She left the bedroom and headed toward the small office space they’d set up. The room was bright, organized—a desk, her laptop, a neat stack of notebooks, and a corkboard pinned with schedules and reminders. It was the kind of space that made her feel like she had control, even when life felt heavy.

She pulled out her assignments: notes from Music Theory, a reading list for Contemporary Literature, the journal project for Composition, and the song analysis from Music History. Spreading them across the desk, she opened her laptop and began typing, fingers moving steadily as she worked her way through each subject.

The door creaked softly, and Emma appeared, still in Abigail’s hoodie, her hair pulled back loosely. She leaned against the frame for a moment, watching with a faint smile.

“You didn’t even stop to breathe,” Emma teased gently.

Abigail glanced up, grinning. “I’ve got to stay on top of this. Four classes, four assignments. If I don’t start now, I’ll fall behind.”

Emma padded across the room, her bare feet quiet against the floor. Without another word, she slid carefully into Abigail’s lap, curling sideways so her head rested against her shoulder.

Abigail adjusted automatically, one arm wrapping around Emma’s waist, the other still typing. She leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to Emma’s temple, lingering just a second before returning her focus to the screen.

Emma sighed softly, eyes fluttering closed. “Don’t mind me. Just… wanted to be close.”

Abigail kissed her again, this time on the crown of her head, before whispering, “You’re never a distraction. If anything, you make me focus more.”

Emma smiled faintly, her hand brushing over Abigail’s chest as she nestled closer. Abigail kept working—reading, typing, jotting down notes with her free hand—while holding her, the rhythm of their lives blending as naturally as chords in a song.

For a while, nothing else mattered. Just assignments and steady breathing, love and responsibility moving in harmony.