It could be enough, really. She didn't know what to expect-- it's mildly surprising she got him into bed at all. And it's not like she really needs to come again; she's still pleasantly exhausted, warm but not heated, and there's something to be said for the glow of deep affection even in the absence of sex.

The thing is.

The thing is it's Mulder, and even though she can't fully turn off the clinical part of herself-- it's not uncommon, any number of totally insignificant reasons, he could be on something that suppresses libido-- it feels... significant. Troubling. There's a wild part of her that wonders if this has been a mistake all around, if it's evidence that he'd really rather not-- but the way he's kissing her, still kissing her, she can't bring herself to doubt him.

And probably there's nothing to be done about it, and even acknowledging it will ruin what has otherwise been-- well, one of the most emotionally draining days of her life, actually, come to think of it-- but she somehow can't stop herself.

"Can I touch you?" she asks, breathy and quiet and as neutral as possible, like she won't be bothered if he'd rather not-- and impossibly, somehow, she won't. But she has to try, or at least try to try. Maybe some more direct encouragement would help.