Crimson blood stained her crisp white shirt. It soaked her collar, marred her skin. Her face was what scared him most – expressionless, slack. Panic seized him as soon as he saw her on the floor. He was poised to attack, gun in hand, but her lifeless body was so much worse than any foe he could have encountered.

A million thoughts raced through his head as he walked toward her. The loudest voice told him that this was his fault. He had raced off to pursue Padgett without casting a glance behind him to see if Scully was following. He had walked right into Padgett's trap. Maybe Scully was right – Padgett did understand human behavior. He knew Mulder would blindly chase him into the basement, leaving Scully isolated in the apartment.

Mulder crouched down when he reached her, his eyes running over Scully's body, silently begging for signs of life. If Scully was the psychic surgeon's last victim, Mulder would see to it personally that Padgett didn't live to write another word.

Scully sprang to life with a jolt, a primal sound yelping out of her. As if resuming the fight against her assailant, her arms shot up to protect herself. When she registered that it was Mulder above her, not Naciamento, she frantically wrapped her arms around his neck, gasping for air like a diver suddenly surfacing. He responded in kind, hugging her to his chest.

She clung to him in a way she never had before – desperate and deathly frightened. Her grip on him was fierce. Like he was the only thing keeping her anchored to the earth. Like one slip and she would freefall back into the chasm between life and death. Her nails dug into him, tracing lines of sorrow across his back. She buried her face in his neck, sobs wracking her body. Tears soaked his skin; blood saturated his sweater. She cried violently, with uncontrollable abandon.

Scully had always been so strong, so fearless. He had seen her take down men twice her size, verbally spar with people who disrespected her, and stand up to the toughest of foes. It was easy to forget that she was breakable – she was human – just like anyone else. The attack must have been horrific to have triggered such a visceral response in her.

He held her as she cried. "It's OK," he whispered, rubbing her back. "It's OK. I've got you."

His knees threatened to bruise from kneeling and his arms started to ache, but it didn't matter. He remained steadfast, holding her without flinching, hoping she felt supported and grounded. As the minutes ticked by, her crying gradually quieted and her breathing became deeper.

Eventually, she unhooked her arms from his neck and he loosened his grasp. He pulled back slightly, wanting to look into her eyes, but her gaze was focused on the wall behind him. Looking over his shoulder, he saw several bullet holes in his apartment wall. Scully was transfixed by the sight.

"I shot him," she whispered, dazed.

"Naciamento?"

She nodded and he understood without her having to explain any further. Scully was an excellent shot and if she was attacked in the same way as the other victims, it would have been at point-blank range. The shots went right through him.

Turning his attention back to her, he said, "Let me help you up." He rose slowly from the floor, taking her with him.

Her chest was covered in blood, her blouse drenched. Still piecing together what happened, he tried to calm his racing thoughts and focus on tending to Scully. What was important was that she was alive and her heart was still in her chest. But, god, the sight of the blood was terrifying.

Putting a hand on her back, he guided her toward the bathroom and said, "Let's check you out."

Still visibly in shock, she let Mulder lead her without protest. When he flicked on the light, the contrast between her pale skin and the blood became starker. Scully avoided the sight of herself in the mirror, keeping her eyes downcast.

"Can I look at you?" he asked, his eyes darting down to her shirt.

"Yeah," she murmured, her face vacant, tired.

She raised her hands to unbutton the top button of her blouse. Her hands trembled.

"Let me," he said, gently moving her hands away. She didn't fight him, letting her hands fall away to her sides.

He swallowed nervously, afraid of what he may find. He slowly unhooked the buttons of her blouse, his eyes ping-ponging back and forth between his task and her eyes. Any hint of discomfort and he was prepared to stop. She blankly stared straight ahead, her gaze unfocused. There were a multitude of ways he had imagined unbuttoning her blouse over the years, but this was not one of them.

Once he finished, he parted her blouse to reveal the side with the blood. It was dark, fanned out over her chest, and soaked through her bra. A wave of nausea passed over him at the sight. Suppressing his impulse to react, he calmly picked up a gray washcloth resting on the sink. He turned on the faucet and wet the washcloth completely once the water was warm enough.

Squeezing out the excess water, he turned back to her and held up the washcloth like a question. "Can I?"

Snapping back into focus, her eyes cleared, and all he saw there was trust. She nodded in affirmation.

With a gentleness he reserved for Scully, he gingerly ran the washcloth over her chest, over her heart. No lacerations. No signs of injury. Unable to fully believe it, he ran his fingers over the same spot. Then, he turned back to the sink and wrung out the washcloth.

Making a second pass over her chest and then wiping off the blood between her breasts, he asked softly, "Are you hurt? Is there any pain?"

"Um, I don't think so," she said unsteadily. She closed her eyes and swallowed hard.

He alternated a few times between cleaning the blood and wringing it out in the sink. While the sight of the blood had initially been unnerving, he was simultaneously fascinated by its existence. All that blood and no wounds underneath. Not even a bruise or scratch.

After a few minutes, he felt Scully watching him. He had momentarily been so absorbed with the enigma of it all, how this could be, that he had stopped monitoring her reactions. Knowing Scully, he worried she may feel exposed and vulnerable. Not only from her state of undress – though he had certainly seen her in less clothing before – but from letting him take care of her like this. When he met her eyes, they were soft and warm, though they were puffy and swollen from crying.

"Mulder, your sweater," she murmured, noticing the blood that had seeped into his shirt.

He shrugged cheekily. "It's not my favorite anyway."

She smiled, but it quickly faded when someone knocked on the door. Her eyes widened, panicked. Neighbors must have called the police when they heard the gunshots.

"Mulder, I can't explain –"

"You don't have to explain anything."

Scully started to button her blouse, suddenly self-conscious. "The, um, bullet holes and the blood. . ."

"Hey," he said, putting his hands over hers, stopping her movements, "let the paramedics check you out. Make sure you're alright. Meanwhile, I can lead the police to our writer friend. I think I know where he is. And I have a feeling he won't be bothering you anymore."

Scully licked her lips, processing the full extent of what he was implying. After a beat, he left her to answer the door. Two police officers – both young men – were eagerly waiting. Mulder invited them into the foyer, explaining the situation the best he could, glossing over the more bizarre details. The men seemed impressed when he flashed his credentials; Mulder sensed they were inexperienced.

A paramedic arrived a few minutes later – a woman with a friendly face and curly hair. Scully emerged from the bathroom with her blouse drawn close and her professional face on. To avoid an interrogation of Scully, Mulder persuaded the police to follow him to the basement instead. Leave Scully with the paramedic.

Scully sat on the couch, begrudgingly submitting to an exam. The paramedic placed her bag on the coffee table and knelt in front of Scully. She seemed fine. Until she wasn't.

When Mulder started to lead the police out of the apartment, Scully called after him, "Mulder –"

He turned around to find her face panicked, almost frightened. It didn't make sense. He had told her the plan with the police. She wasn't in any immediate danger.

"I'll meet you in the hallway," Mulder said to the officers, dismissing them.

After the door closed, he walked back to where Scully sat. The paramedic was listening to her heart with a stethoscope.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Sorry," she said, her eyes flitting between the paramedic and Mulder, embarrassed. "I guess I, um, didn't want you to leave."

He bent down and put his hand on her back. In a low voice, he said, "I have to take them to the basement. I'll come back as soon as we're done. Then I'll take you home."

"And I'll be here," the paramedic added with a comforting smile.

She meant well, but Scully stiffened. "Yeah, I'm fine," she said. "You go."

Mulder went through the motions with the officers. They found Padgett dead, just as Mulder expected. It made sense in its own romantic, twisted way. Scully was only alive because Padgett killed his creation. While Mulder tried to focus his attention on wrapping up the case with the officers, all he could think about was Scully. The fear in her eyes as he left the apartment stuck with him. Whatever she experienced at the hand of Padgett's accomplice had rocked her confidence.

When he finally returned to the apartment, the paramedic was packing up her supplies.

"She's changing her clothes," the paramedic explained, nodding to Mulder's bedroom. They always kept a bag of spare clothes and toiletries at each other's apartments in case of emergency. Normally, an emergency meant chasing down a lead somewhere that would necessitate an overnight stay. Or, catching a last-minute flight due to a break in the case. Changing out of blood-soaked clothes to be submitted as evidence was a new one.

Softly, so Scully wouldn't hear, he said, "Thank you –"

"Renee."

"Renee," he repeated.

Mimicking Mulder's quiet tone, she said, "She's pretty shaken up. And she's refusing to go to the hospital for further examination. She seems fine physically, but she's experienced some kind of trauma."

He nodded, more worried than ever. Even this woman who had never met Scully before knew she was suffering.

"Does she live alone?" she asked, brow furrowed.

"Yeah."

"You may want to make sure she isn't alone tonight."

"Thank you."

When Renee left the apartment and the door clicked shut, Scully emerged from his bedroom holding a small duffel bag. She had changed into a beige sweater and loose navy pants.

"Is everyone gone?" she asked.

"Yeah. You ready to go?"

She hesitated. "What happened to Padgett?"

"He's dead. He burned his manuscript and ripped his own heart out of his chest.

Scully looked down at the floor as if she were guilty of killing him. Perhaps he should have couched that information in softer language.

She whispered to herself, "So that's why I'm alive."

Mulder ignored the pang of irrational jealousy in his stomach. He still didn't understand why Scully had been drawn to Padgett. Why had she given a stalker – a man perversely obsessed with her – the benefit of the doubt?

Shooing away these thoughts, he distracted himself by taking the bag from her hand.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"I'll take you home."

"I drove myself here."

"I can take a cab back."

Scully pursed her lips. There were a million reasons he could give her for not wanting to leave her alone. I just watched you fall apart. You sobbed in my arms. Your hands were shaking. You went through a trauma. But he knew Scully. Stating these facts would only raise her defenses. She would dig her heels in. Double down to prove her strength.

"Please don't fight me on this," he pleaded.

Her entire body sagged with tiredness. Turns out she didn't have any fight left in her. Silently, she followed him out of the apartment, down the elevator, and to her car parked on the street. The ride back felt heavy. The air filled with unanswered questions. With each minute that ticked by, he could feel Scully retreating emotionally. He imagined her folding into herself like origami, contorting herself into knots.

When they arrived at her apartment, he carried her bag up to her door. With dread, he anticipated the moment that she would turn him away. He hovered over her as she unlocked the door. To his surprise, she allowed him inside and he placed her bag on the kitchen table.

"How are you feeling?" he asked tentatively.

She ran her hand over her chest where the blood had been. "Like I need a long shower."

He held his breath, waiting for the inevitable. The decision had already been made, though, in his mind. As soon as the paramedic had said Scully shouldn't be alone, he had decided to stay with her no matter what.

Then, it came. "You can go home. I'm fine. Really. I'm just going to take a shower and go to bed."

He cleared his throat and said what he prepared in his head on the drive over. "I can spend the night. It's no problem. I'll sleep on the couch. That's usually what I do at home anyway."

She exhaled sharply. "No, Mulder."

"The paramedic said –"

"I don't care what the paramedic said. I'm a doctor," she said sternly. He had no doubt that she mentioned that fact to the paramedic several times.

"I know you're a doctor. But you've been through a traumatic event."

She held his gaze, anger flaring in her eyes. "And what are you going to do about that?"

Lightening his tone, trying to diffuse her anger, he said, "Whatever you want. We can talk about it. Or not talk about it. Get something to eat. Watch a movie. Braid each other's hair."

She closed her eyes like she was wishing for him to disappear. "Like I said, I just need a good night's sleep."

That much was obvious. Still, he had no intention of leaving. "OK. Then I'll camp out here," he said, gesturing to the couch.

Scully rolled her eyes. "You're being ridiculous."

Gentler, he said, "You don't have to put on a brave face. It's just me."

Tears brimmed at the corner of her eyes and she looked away, trying to hide them.

He went on, "You can just ask, Scully."

"Ask what?"

"Ask for what you need from me."

Scully tensed and he imagined walls being constructed around her brick-by-brick from the ground up until she was no longer visible. Without responding, she padded slowly to her bedroom. At the threshold, she turned and said, "Please leave."

She shut the door behind her, shutting him out. She didn't slam it, but she closed it forcefully enough to let him know that she meant it. Unfortunately for her, this behavior didn't affect his plan for the night.

He crossed the room and sat on her couch. A few books sat on her end table: The Hours, Message in a Bottle, and The Poisonwood Bible. The spines of the books were pristine with no evidence of use. He vaguely recalled that she had made a New Year's resolution to read more. At the time he imagined that she meant scholarly journals and other non-fiction works. All these books, however, appeared to be literary fiction. He flipped through the novels and skimmed over the synopses on the back covers. Message in a Bottle appeared to be a romance, surprising him even further.

From across the apartment, he heard water rushing through pipes. Scully was taking a shower. Recalling where she kept extra blankets, he walked over to a wooden chest in the corner and picked out the largest blanket she had. He turned off all the lights in the room save for the lamp on the end table. Settling in for the night, he draped the blanket over himself and cracked open Message in a Bottle. He wasn't particularly interested in the story aside from the fact that he wondered why Scully chose it. Reading also tended to help him fall asleep. TV worked better but he didn't want Scully to be bothered by the noise.

After only a few pages, Mulder's mind drifted to Padgett's novel about the murders. And about Scully. Padgett viewed himself as the protagonist of his own warped literary romance with Scully, a thought that made his stomach churn. He hadn't yet processed all the details in Padgett's novel about Scully and their implications. Of course, he wondered how much of it was true. How much of what he wrote was wish fulfillment and fantasy? How much was based on actual observation and insights? Had he successfully tapped into Scully's innermost thoughts and desires? Scully had been so shaken by the novel – and by her interactions with Padgett – that it led Mulder to believe that at least some of it struck a chord with her.

The shower stopped and, a few minutes later, he heard Scully's footsteps as she walked from the bathroom to her bedroom. He heard her opening and closing drawers as she readied for bed. The domestic sounds of her apartment comforted him, reassuring him that she was safe. He wasn't sure whether she was aware of his presence – that he had disobeyed her orders to leave.

Despite his best efforts to keep reading the book and forget about Padgett, Mulder couldn't shake him. Of everything he had written and said, his words when they released him from jail rang out the loudest:

In my book, I'd written that Agent Scully falls in love, but that's obviously impossible. Agent Scully is already in love.

It didn't take a logician to know that Padgett was referring to Mulder. Mulder was the only other person in Scully's life that he had met unless Scully had a secret boyfriend. Padgett had written an entire novel pairing himself with Scully romantically, including a lurid sex scene written in the most pretentious of purple prose. So, why the one-eighty? Why, seemingly out of nowhere, did he conclude that Scully was in love with him? When had Padgett come to this conclusion and why?

He rolled to his side and tried to read again, willing himself to become immersed in the story. Eventually, he fell asleep.

"Mulder."

It took several seconds for Mulder to register his name being said. It took another several seconds to realize he was not at his apartment and not alone. Scully was standing next to the couch in a set of purple silk pajamas.

"What's up, Scully?" he murmured. He didn't know what time it was, but it felt late. Middle-of-the-night late.

Her face was scrubbed clean, her hair slightly matted from laying in bed. Standing before him was not the Scully he knew. She looked small and meek – a lost, hopeless expression on her face.

"I'm exhausted, but I can't sleep," she said.

That didn't surprise him with how upset she was in the aftermath of the attack. Rubbing his eyes to fully wake himself up, he shifted into an upright position so he could fully focus on her.

"Yeah," he said in a groggy voice, "I don't blame you."

Scully didn't move and looked uncomfortable. He wasn't sure what she wanted from him. To talk? Given her reaction to his offers earlier, he didn't want to guess.

"Mulder, um –" she started, her voice shaky. Whatever she intended to say, she was struggling with it. He decided to wait, to let her find the words.

"Take your time," he said reassuringly.

She nodded and took a few deep breaths. "I don't feel safe," she managed to finally say.

"What do you need? To feel safe?"

Her expression shifted. She seemed almost embarrassed. "Can you . . . come hold me?"

The request shocked him. Frankly, he was shocked she asked for any help at all. He tamped down the impulse to react, keeping his face neutral. He didn't want Scully to regret asking for this. The number of times she has allowed him to hold her, to have any prolonged physical contact really, he could count on one hand.

"Of course," he said, rising from the couch. He stepped directly onto Message in a Bottle, which must have fallen off the couch while he was sleeping. "Uh, good book," he joked, picking it up from the floor and depositing it on the end table.

She exhaled a small laugh, her body releasing tension. It must have taken her a great deal of courage to ask for help, which was both encouraging and worrying. On one hand, he was happy Scully felt comfortable enough with him to finally ask for what she needed. On the other hand, the fact that she asked for help – which was extremely uncharacteristic of her – spoke to the severity of what she was feeling.

Scully led the way back to her bedroom and Mulder followed. She pulled back the comforter on the right side of the bed. He mentally noted she chose the opposite side from when they shared a bed in Kansas. Deciding not to comment on the switch, he crossed to the other side of the bed and climbed in. It felt strange and weighty to be getting into Scully's bed with her.

She faced away from him and pulled the comforter up to her chin in a childlike way that he found endearing. He scooted up behind her but didn't touch her at first. How did she want to be held? Where should he put his arms? His hands? How close was he allowed to get? He began to overthink everything. She cast a glance over her shoulder, a tiny movement, which he took as a green light to proceed. He slid one arm under her pillow and placed the other around her waist, his hand coming to rest on the mattress.

She closed her eyes and swallowed, taking a deep breath. While their bodies still had space between them, he sensed stiffness.

"Is this OK?" he whispered.

She nodded and moved back so that her back was flush with his torso. Taking this as permission, he held her more tightly, anchoring her around her waist. He felt Scully relax into him, like her whole body was sighing with relief. He buried his nose in her hair and closed his eyes.

After a few minutes, just when Mulder was beginning to feel drowsy, Scully said something he never ever hoped to hear. "He violated me, Mulder."

His breath caught in his throat. He wanted to know what she meant – whether she was referring to Padgett or Naciemento and what violated meant in this context – yet he also dreaded the answer. His mind jumped to all the worst-case scenarios.

"Naciamento?" he asked.

"Padgett," she said seriously. "He violated me in the worst way possible. He violated my mind."

He let the words, and all its implications, sink in.

"You're saying what he wrote about you was true?"

She went quiet. He hoped he hadn't overstepped with the question.

"Some things," she said. "He had been following me. Noticing everything."

He hated that someone had been stalking Scully right under his nose.

She continued, "Obviously, some of the things he wrote about me didn't happen. But there are things he did get right. And that's what scares me."

Without his permission, Mulder's thoughts jumped right to Padgett's comment about Scully being in love. He pushed it away. It wasn't the time to explore those thoughts. He pulled her closer and draped his leg protectively over her, enveloping her whole body.

He whispered into her ear, "You're safe."

His words cracked something wide open inside her. She covered her eyes with one of her hands and began to cry. It wasn't the same kind of crying as earlier that day – the cry of survival, of clinging to life. Her crying was quiet, accompanied by deep, cleansing breaths. To him, her crying felt like a relief. Relief that she had survived. Relief that the whole ordeal was over. Relief that she was being held in the safety of his arms.

"You're safe," he said again.

She nodded, lowering her hand from her face. She sucked in a breath like she was about to say something. No words came out, only a shaky exhale. Scully grabbed his hand that rested near her waist and pressed it to her chest, over her heart. She squeezed her eyes shut and held his hand there against her warm skin. The gesture felt deeply significant.

The skin beneath his palm was warm and he could feel the faint pulse of her racing heart. Maybe she wanted a witness to the fact that Naciamento didn't take her heart. She was alive and her heart was beating. She survived. He dared to wonder if it meant even more than that. Was she communicating something about her metaphorical heart? Was Padgett right? Did Mulder hold her heart in his hand?

He desperately wanted to say the right thing. Despite feeling violated by Padgett, she was letting him see her vulnerability, letting their intimacy grow.

"You're safe with me, Scully."

As they lay together, her heartbeat eventually slowed and her body melded into his. Mulder slowed his breathing to match hers. Her body felt so soft nestled against him. Achingly soft. When they worked together, she always dressed so sharply – all tailored angles and lines. In the quiet of her bedroom with her walls down and her heart open, she was all soft. For the first time, he felt all the curves of her body up close. The silk of her pajamas was melted butter against his skin. Holding her was sensory overload in the most comforting way. The warmth of her body, the beat of her heart, the smell of her hair – it all felt like coming home.

The next morning, he woke to the smell of coffee. Instead of Scully in his arms, he was clutching a pillow. It was a poor substitute for the calm he had felt holding Scully. A soft clinking noise came from the kitchen. His first thought was whether Scully would regret the night before. He could easily envision a scenario where she considered her actions a sign of weakness. Mentally, he braced himself for the possibility that she could withdraw again – emotionally, physically, or both.

He kicked his legs over the side of her bed, still slightly reeling that he was in Scully's bed. Not only that, he slept with her in her bed. Scrubbing his hand over his face, he sat still for a moment. Scully's footsteps shuffled on the other side of the door. He bit the bullet and left the sanctity of her bedroom.

He found Scully in the living room on the couch, a mug in her hand. Morning sunlight streamed through the windows, bathing her in a warm glow. Without her makeup, he could see the constellations of freckles across her nose and cheeks and the beauty mark above her lip. It made no sense to him why she normally covered them. Her eyelashes and eyebrows looked light and delicate. She had put a cream-colored robe over her pajamas. Her expression was serene and peaceful – not at all what he expected.

When he stepped forward, she looked up at him and smiled. She gestured to a mug for him on the end table. He returned her smile and picked up the hot mug, sitting down on the other end of the couch. For a few minutes, they sat in companionable silence, sipping their coffee. She had made it exactly the way he liked it – a little cream, no sugar. He found it difficult not to stare at her. With the sunlight creating a halo around her, she looked breathtakingly beautiful. He knew this about her the way he knew any other fact. Scully is a doctor. Scully has two brothers. Scully is beautiful. But he didn't often stop to notice it in this way. Noticing it was much too dangerous for their working relationship. Noticing could drive him to distraction.

"Mulder, thank you," she said, her voice a little scratchy from sleep. "Thank you for last night."

"How are you feeling?"

"OK," she said with a sigh. "What happened yesterday scared me. Not just the attack. All of it. Padgett. His writing about me."

She paused to take a sip of her coffee.

"Last night you said he was right about some things he wrote. And that scared you."

She nodded and swallowed. She put the mug down on the coffee table and her expression became more serious. With an air of formality, like she had prepared a speech, she said, "Mulder, you know I don't let a lot of people get close to me. I think it's partly the way I grew up. Any time I started to make friends, it was time to set sail for the next port. At a young age, I learned I had to protect myself from making close connections because it would ultimately end in loss."

Mulder knew about her upbringing but hadn't paused to consider how their lifestyle had contributed to her lack of attachments.

She continued, "The FBI also isn't very conducive to opening up to people. Showing vulnerability. Especially as a woman. I already have to work twice as hard to get the respect I deserve. I don't feel like I'm allowed to show any weakness. If I did, I would lose all credibility."

He nodded encouragingly but didn't interrupt.

"Padgett knew some things about me, yes. But he gained that knowledge, those facts, without my consent." She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear nervously. "The truth is the thought of being completely known by someone scares me. But what scares me even more is the thought of that intimacy forced upon me. I didn't give it to him. He took it."

This created more questions in his mind. If she had been scared, why did she willingly go into his apartment? Why had she defended him during their investigation? These were questions for another time, though. For now, he was thrilled that she was opening up to him.

"I realized last night that you do know me," she said, meeting his gaze with soft eyes. "What you did showed me that you know the real me. And maybe that scares me a little too." She picked up her mug, holding it to warm her hands but not sipping. "When my cancer went into remission, I felt like I was given a second chance. I vowed that I would let people get closer to me. That I wouldn't shut people out. But I haven't done a very good job of that, have I?"

He wanted so badly to hold her again, to comfort her, to reassure her that he knew she was doing the best she could. That she was enough. That he would take anything she had to give. If he held her heart in his hands, she held his doubly so.

"Scully –"

"I don't want you to answer. I'm saying that I'm going to try to be more open with you."

His heart soared. "I would like that," he said.

They smiled at each other. He wished he could preserve this conversation in amber for all eternity. Part of him feared if he stayed any longer, he would mess up this perfect moment somehow. Overstay his welcome.

"I want you to know," he said, "you could never lose credibility with me. Never."

He set his mug, nearly empty, on the table and stood. "I'm gonna head home. I've been in these clothes for twenty-four hours," he said. "If you need anything – if you want me to come back tonight – I want you to call me. OK?"

He leaned down and planted a kiss on her cheek.

"OK," she agreed.

As he left the apartment and walked down the hallway, he had a spring in his step. It was unfortunate that a horrible case had to be the impetus for bringing them closer. Still, it had happened. Scully let her guard down, let him in. He wanted the opportunity to hold her again but under much different circumstances. More fun circumstances. Circumstances that didn't involve a case at all. No pretense. Just the two of them enjoying each other's company. Then, he had an idea.