Telling someone you love them should feel better than this. She's come close to saying it to him but always been scared off by the queasy feeling of vulnerability; even now, after miracle upon miracle, curled in his arms and the feeling obviously mutual, it's enough to leave her half-sick with formless worry.

But the world doesn't end. Mulder doesn't disappear.

His words make a fresh round of tears well up, and she sniffles. Not the demure, half-choked polite sniffs from before but a godawful, just-on-the-wrong-side-of-controlled, wet snort. If she were any less a master of ironclad self-control, she'd be wailing. She feels like her heart could break, or burst-- but below that she feels, miraculously, safe. Mulder is one of the only people left who she can trust will put her back together if she falls apart.

"I'm sorry-- everything sets me off these days," she murmurs, scrubbing at her eyes with a sleeve.