It's still a revelation, feeling her hands on him. Her touch is gentle without being too light; she's a solid form at his side, her hair tickling his jaw. He's come home to more than he could have imagined, even before he was taken. This isn't the Scully who took off while he was asleep in bed, unwilling to commit even to a night in his apartment.

"Because you couldn't," he murmurs back, his cheek pillowed against her hair. "And probably something to do with repressed Catholic guilt, or the phases of the moon. But you didn't have to say it out loud. I knew."