Freezing is probably not, objectively, the worst thing she could do, but Scully suspects it ranks pretty high on the list. It doesn't last long-- almost reflexively she reaches to grab his wrist through the fabric of her shirt-- his shirt-- to keep him from pulling his hand away from her skin.

"Do you really want to have this conversation now?"

A lifetime ago that might have been teasing and coy; now, it's a little bit resigned. She knows him too well, and if he's stuck on this topic now-- with his fingers barely an inch from her nipple, their legs threaded together, the familiar, delicious tension of her body a clear message that whatever the future holds, what she wants right now is only him-- if he's asking, there's no chance of distracting him from it. Not with feminine wiles or UFO sightings or an offer to run downstairs and grab her handcuffs.

Her other hand, she threads into his hair, gentle and familiar and sweet. It doesn't mean no, because she doesn't want to say no. But, really, she can't say yes either-- that she'll just stay here and sell her condo and never look back. It isn't that simple, even if she wishes it were that simple.

"I'm right where I want to be now," she murmurs. "Can't we start with that?"