"We had sex last night," you whisper giddily, slipping into your empty room (thank god your roommate has labs on Saturdays), finally releasing the smile that's been trapped between your teeth. You've held it there since all the way back in his dorm, across campus and up the stairs.

You say it again, louder, in case you didn't hear yourself the first time, "WE HAD SEX LAST NIGHT." The words hover, frilly and curly-cued, before fluttering their way to the floor. Giggling, you blush at the clandestine sound of them, the way they slide so easily off your tongue. As if you've had sex with Fox Mulder countless times before, as if his growl of your name is a commonplace thing, as if you've already committed his body to memory.

You have, you know—committed him to memory. You've imprinted him onto your soul, every cunning fox-like inch of him. Shivering, you think of those new-to-you inches, the ones you discovered last night, on a black leather couch, illuminated by the light of a thousand candles (not really, of course, but a thousand sounds so much more romantic than ten).

You discovered those inches again this morning, hard against your bottom, and his ragged moan when you took him in your hand was perfection. It's a heady feeling, knowing you can affect a boy—this boy—like that. He came in five quick strokes (he must have been ready, because surely you can't be that good), your tongue in his mouth as he finished.

….

You feel different, in such a wonderful, secretive sort of way. Like the time Finn Jackson sent you a "Do you like me?" note during math class in seventh grade. You checked the box 'yes', and the two of you went together for three whole days. Nobody knew (not even Melissa, and Melissa knew everything), and the soda pop fizz of excitement in your tummy was the most exciting sensation you'd ever experienced, in all of your twelve long years.

And Fox Mulder is so much fizzier than Finn Jackson ever was. He's not soda pop; he's the very best champagne. He's Dom Perignon on New Year's Eve (you tasted it once, at a fancy party, tucked in a corner so your parents didn't see).

The point is, this 'feeling different' isn't just an average "feeling different". It's a 'feeling different' of the most spectacular kind. It's an I'll-never-feel-the-same-again-ever-ever-ever-and-it's-breathtaking kind of 'feeling different'. And it's divine.

You had sex last night—with a boy who calls you by your last name and already feels as second-nature to you as breathing. With a boy who is suddenly your every thought and your every purpose. With a boy you've only known for a month.

With a boy who told you last night he loves you.

….

You insisted on leaving him this morning, though he nibbled at your fingertips and begged you to stay. "I need to take a shower, change my clothes, work on my… -oh!" your words were interrupted by the wet surprise of his tongue against your thumb, the heat of his mouth as he sucked it inside. The flush that worked its way through your body was so immediate, you felt dizzy.

Thank god he let you go, because honestly, at that point you were ready to spend the rest of your days there, sitting on a bed next to Fox Mulder, your thumb in his mouth like a lollipop.

"Promise me tonight," he murmured as you pried yourself from his grip, his hands greedy and tender and exploring your body as if he intended to build a cottage there someday, right there in the curve beneath your rear, the place he'd declared his favorite in a breathy whisper at 4:00 this morning.

You promised (I promise, I promise, I promise—was there ever a question you'd do anything but?), and his hazel eyes tracked you through the window until you were out of sight. What an exhilarating sensation, feeling like prey.

….

The rest of your day exists through a Fox-filtered haze. Your every dragging moment is colored with thoughts of him and of last night and of the way he felt inside you. Hard. Alive. Perfect.

You're so glad you waited. So glad you never gave in to whiny high school boys who tried to guilt you with "but if you care about meeeee…", so glad you weren't tempted by Andrew and your newfound college freedom.

Because Fox Mulder was so incredibly worth the wait. And not just physically (although the 'physically' is most definitely a bonus). But spiritually as well (Missy would throw her head back and laugh at you right now).

You used to have a necklace, the right half of a gold-plated heart. Your best friend at the time (what was her name again? Amy? Anna?) had the left. You eventually moved away and apparently forgot her name, but you still have it somewhere, in a box mixed with giddy school-girl notes folded up like origami.

You realize now that he is the other half of your necklace, the heart that when interlocked with yours, fits like a puzzle piece. You are the right side and he is the left, and when you're together, your blood pumps more fiercely than you'd ever have thought possible.

You'll never forget his name. It's been scripted onto your life with indelible ink.

And nothing erases a Sharpie.

….

He calls you twice, and you cuddle in bed against your pillow, pretending it's his chest and still the middle of last night (you're happy you splurged on the super-long telephone cord—it traverses the room like a pencil winding its way through a maze). His soft fox-voice against your ear reaches deep down inside—it makes you tremble in your most private places. "When tonight?" he wants to know with his first call, and "How much longer?" with the second. It's thrilling to feel in such high demand.

Your roommate returns while you're reciting the periodic table, flipping through elements like a Rolodex over the phoneline (he told you once that Science Talk is sexy, and who are you to disagree?). You stop mid-Lanthanide series with a whispered, "I've gotta go," then raise your eyes to her questioning face.

"Sooooooo?" the "o's" climb the scale before she reaches the question mark, each one making you cringe just the slightest bit more.

"So nothing," you say shortly, "We were just studying." You busy yourself with putting laundry away.

"Right. Studying," you can hear the roll of her eyes in her voice. "I don't know what you see in that guy anyway. He's kind of spooky, if you ask me."

"That's why I didn't ask you," you clip uncharacteristically, then escape out the door to the laundry room. Exactly when did your friends all become so unappealing?

Somehow, in the last month, your entire world has spun on its axis. The continents have shifted; the oceans have spread. You find yourself standing in a completely different place than where you started.

With him.

Alone.

On an island.

You look across the water to see everyone else you've ever known, and it feels strangely, perfectly right.

….

You arrive in his dorm at 7 PM, heart pitter-pattering against the hard curve of your ribs. In his lobby, you wait, contorting your body into a precisely-crafted pose you hope conveys both boredom and sex appeal (it's more likely saying I've been waiting all day and am wearing my prettiest lingerie and I had sex last night for the very first time and I think I'm in love with a boy named after a forest animal).

He appears as a widening vertical stripe through the elevator, and your attempt at nonchalance goes right out the window, because he smiles and your knees buckle and he's already there and kissing you hello. Hello, hello, and oh godddd—hello. His tongue's hello almost makes you want to turn around and leave, just so you can come back and do it all again.

"I missed you," he whispers against your teeth.

"Mmm-hmmm," you press into the sandpaper of his jaw.

And then you're whisked into his elevator and ascending to his floor and suddenly you're standing in his room again, looking at the couch where your entire world changed just twenty-four hours ago. He's lit the candles again, and you think you've never smelled anything as sexy as French Vanilla candles combined with Fox Mulder's skin.

His breath is hot against the back of your neck, and you shiver when his lips find you there, right where pink skin meets copper hair, in the spot he learned last night will make you gasp. He turns you around and you nod—just barely—but it's enough.

With elegant fingers, he plucks away your clothing like petals in a "she loves me not" game (Do you want to know a secret? She loves him.) You do the same with his, reciting the words in your head, even though he already gave away the ending last night (he loves you, you remind yourself).

Somehow, this is even more exciting the second time around. You've already discovered his sweet spots, those candied pieces of skin that make him groan—the peppermint sticks of his ribs and the jelly bean lobes of his ears. And he, in turn, has discovered yours— the angled hard candy of your hips and the lemon drop tang of your nipples (lemon drops are his very favorite, he told you).

He kisses you with fingers in your hair, and your hands skim over his chest like water bugs, touching down every few inches before hopping to another spot. They finally land at his nape, and you rise on your toes to bring him even closer. You've never wanted to absorb another person before him.

He lifts you and you squeal, but god, the feeling of your body pressing against him like that is magical. It's safety and comfort and sex, skin meeting skin like a suction cup. He makes you feel things you've never felt before and are positive you'll never feel again (even at only nineteen years old, you somehow know this).

He lays you on his bed, shoving away petals of clothing like the non-necessities they are (you think about how many other things in your life aren't necessary anymore, now that he is in it). He covers your body, and it's the most wonderful thing in the world, having your only necessity right here for the taking.

"I've thought about this all day… couldn't wait to touch you again," he rumbles against your jaw.

"Me too… all day, all day…," you murmur back, but all day doesn't even begin to cover it, how much you've thought about him since this morning. You feel as though your entire life has been condensed into a mere twelve hours, and he's been right there, at the forefront of it all.

He's gentle and soft and hard, just the way he was last night. You're in awe of the look on his face as he presses his way inside you. It hurts a little less tonight, and you sigh into his strokes, thinking so this is what it feels like, to allow someone in.

His fingers fumble with your breasts, with the lemon drop tips of your nipples, until you're arching against him with an unexpected whimper (no other boy has ever made you whimper, you're sure of it). It's all so brilliantly overwhelming and intense. You pull him close, and his ragged breaths gather in the hollow between your neck and shoulder (you collect them, you know, to listen to again and again and again).

And then he's groaning and apologizing, saying, "Oh god, I can't stop," and you breathe in his moans while he comes. You're giddy with the knowledge that you and your body could make him do that.

"Scully," he gasps, sinking himself atop you. His weight is delicious—suddenly you want it there always; without it, you worry you'll feel too light—you're afraid you may float away. But when he rolls to the side, it's still there, heavy and safe and all-consuming. Maybe you've absorbed him after all.

You think he's done, but no, no he's not done, because his hands are still wandering, still roaming your body like nomads. They traverse your landscape—the hills of your breasts, the plains of your belly, until they settle finally in the valley between your trembling thighs… "You," he whispers when he gets there, "I want you to…"

"Oh!" you gasp, "I don't even… I mean… I only have a couple times…" You're embarrassed, despite what he means to you. You turn your head to hide against his chest.

"Let me…," he murmurs into your hair, his fingers sliding down, pressing.

His middle finger tickles across a sensitive spot, and you jolt slightly, sighing against his skin. You've never let a boy do this, never entrusted your body to another person the way you've done with him. He hovers above you and catches your eye, and you see Bunsen burners and black leather couches and French Vanilla candles there. You still for a moment—he's become everything to you so quickly.

You close your eyes and whisper, "Okay."

He starts with slow circles, around and around and around—you think of a hypnotist and his spinning spiral wheel. You find yourself following him, chasing his touch with the rise of your pelvis. His lips meet your nipple at the precise instant his finger dips inside, and you arch like a cat to meet him. You gasp, the sheets bunching themselves into fists you hadn't even realized you were making.

Oh, it's intense, and becoming even moreso, as he somehow works the heel of his palm against you while stroking his finger inside. You've done this yourself only a handful of times, but already he's found your rhythm, already he seems to know you better than you know yourself (you have a feeling that's going to become a theme with him).

His mouth is on your neck now, tickling in that oh-god-please-stay-there-forever spot, that spot that seems to connect to every other nerve ending in your body, and you moan with the overwhelming weight of it all. Is it possible to explode from just the touch of lips and hands, from the sound of a boy saying "you're more beautiful than the aurora borealis and all the stars combined"?

The speed of his hand grows faster, and you hear yourself whimpering (again he's made you whimper), and the room begins spiraling more quickly than the black and white of that mesmerizing wheel.

And then…

And then and then and then…

And then he that finds that magical spot with his thumb, and suddenly you're there—exploding more brightly than the aurora borealis, more magnificently than all the stars. His skin is warm and slick, and you realize you're gripping his arm; you realize you're gasping "I love you"; you realize that regardless of how hard or how long you look, you'll never find anyone else in this world who will listen to you recite periodic tables over the phone just because he loves the way you say Flerovium.

When you open your eyes, he's there, glittered and twinkling above you (you see stardust still raining down from his dorm-room ceiling). You fight a fleeting urge to hide against his pillow.

"No," he whispers, stopping you with a palm against your cheek, "Don't… don't hide. That was… Christ, Scully, that was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

You pull him down into a kiss that would make even Melissa blush.

….

Your mother has a prized vase that sits on the mantle at home (you and your siblings used to joke that she'd rescue it in a fire before she'd rescue you). Sometimes you'll walk past the room and find her admiring it, just standing with a smile on her face and a faraway look in her eyes. Once Charlie threw a pillow, and the two of you watched in horror as it fell, slow-motion, down to the floor. Somehow (please god, please god, please god), it didn't break, and the relief you both felt was tangible.

For the first time in your life, you think you understand what it feels like to be that vase.

You're still lying on his bed an hour later, and you don't think there's a centimeter left on your body that hasn't been graced with his lips. He tells you you're his buried treasure, the jewels for which he's searched his entire life (actually, the word he uses is 'booty', but you think you prefer 'jewels').

You tell him he's your crystal vase.

But even that's not right. Because you don't want to just admire him from afar. You don't want to look, but never touch (oh no, you definitely need to be able to touch).

So instead, you amend your statement. He's not your crystal vase. No. He's your favorite mug— the one you found at a flea market (because the greatest treasures are always found at a flea market), the one that fits your fingers and thumb like it was crafted precisely for your hand, the one that keeps your coffee at that perfect place between hot and too hot, the one you use every single day and panic if it can't be found.

You tell him this while stroking your hands through his fox-like hair, while wrapping yourself around his lean and lithe fox-like body. And he smiles.

He asks if the mug can be decorated with little gray men ("Gray?" you ask, and he tells you he'll explain later).

You tell him yes.