She doesn't react - not in a way that suggests she's surprised or affronted - and privately, he hopes that means it's not too far off what their friendship looked like before they kissed. It is, he suspects, but a man can hope.

There's a chair at the end of the row of changing rooms, and he slouches over to it, stretching his legs out far as he looks for a photo that Scully can compare to. Scrolling past half-assed pictures of the landscape, an interesting beetle he saw last summer, flowers and garden vegetables and meals out and whatever that blurry thing's supposed to be...and eventually, back almost two years, he finds Scully at the beach. She's wearing a big floppy hat and a coverup over a decidedly flattering black swimsuit, and she's looking over the top of a book at the camera. A smile that looks like it'll become a roll of the eyes in about ten seconds - but no, this is too intimate.

He keeps going, but there they are together. There she is asleep. Every photo breathes intimacy, the kinds of pictures only couples take of each other. He ends up searching up her LinkedIn page, where she's a gorgeous, serious doctor with hair that's grown both longer and lighter over the years. It's a headshot with a professional background, like you'd get at a department store, but maybe that's for the best. Everything else he has looks like a lover.