one careless owner

"Why not?" she asks, indignant. "It's a brilliant plan. One of my best, actually. And I'm very good at plans."

You sigh, setting aside the container of noodles you'd been eating. "Doctor, it's so obvious. Everyone on campus who's ever heard that little rumour—" you catch the way her eyes slide from yours when you mention it "—will start talking again the moment they see us together. Disappearance or not."

"What would you prefer?" she asks, and it feels rhetorical. "We just go back to how things were?"

"Yes!"

"The same way that made everything go wrong in the first place?" she presses, stern as a teacher — and now it's your turn to look away.

You kind of want to say that's not what made things go wrong — it was the fact that she wouldn't risk being with you — but you don't. You hear the soft sigh that escapes her, and you remind yourself that this thing between you is still so raw, so new. It deserves patience, trial and error. And love — so much love.

While you're lost in thought, she makes her way to where you're sitting, dropping to one knee so she's just slightly below you. Her eyes, golden and warm, are locked on yours with such intensity, burning through you like molten copper.

"I know you want things the way they were," she starts, "but that's not how time works. How life works. We're at a crossroads right now where we can choose to keep our lives running while keeping this—" she gestures between you "—alive. Or we lose everything in the process."

"What if we do?" you shoot back.

She smiles — a soft, pained little thing — for just a moment. "I have all of time and space to go back to. What do you have?"

"I have you."

"No." She shakes her head. "You need more than that."

She gets up from the floor, still shaking her head, lips pressed into a tight line. But you realise she's not mad at you. She's not actually mad at all.

She's scared.

And you think you know why.

"You're afraid," you say, carefully. "You think whatever happened to Bill will happen to me too."

She was looking at you at first, eyebrows furrowed. Then she looks away with a sigh, resting her arms on your kitchen counter, her head dropping between her shoulders.

You get up from your seat and make your way carefully to where she is. You run your hand softly along her arms before wrapping them around her waist. She stiffens at first, then relaxes against you.

"It's okay to be scared," you tell her. "I know there's a lot at stake, for you and for me."

She brings her hands up to tentatively touch yours.

"Let's go with your plan," you finish, smiling. "Even though I still think it sucks."

"Oi!"

You laugh, and so does she. And for today, the sound of her laughter is enough.

Her plan works. Of course it does. You're the only one to show up at her office. The only one she lets inside. And the only one to stay after dark.

So, for a couple of weeks, that's how it goes: on the days you have her class, you meet at her office. She leaves the door open for a while, just for show. If anyone passes by, they'll hear you talking about the day you disappeared and nothing more. On the days you don't have her class, you don't see her at all until the weekend. And repeat.

Even though it works, it hurts a little more than you're willing to admit. You miss her immensely on the days you don't see her and on top of that, deep down, you know this little routine of yours won't last, simply because it can't. Next semester, no one will be thinking about that day anymore. Life moves on, and you, victim of an alien kidnapping as you are, are expected to do the same.

You keep all of that to yourself for the first two weeks, convinced you're the only one feeling the growing pains of the plan.

And you were so wrong about that.

On the second week, you get a text during Maths class. You don't check your phone at first — you're in class, after all. But your phone vibrates again. And again. And again again.

There's only one person who texts you like that.

Hiya!

Busy?

I mean, yeah. Probably are.

Still, can you come over?

Quicksmart.

While you're staring at it, a little dumbfounded, another message comes in.

Alfrend Denny's, not my office.

Your heart sinks. The last time she called you there, it was to give you the worst news of your life. Could that be happening again?

I know you're reading this, mate. Chop chop.

As if summoned by those two words, you're on your feet immediately, heading to the spot you remember so well. Fear, anticipation and all.

When you get there, you find her kicking at the ground, hands in her pockets, cute little pout. When her eyes land on you, she brightens up.

"Hi!" she grins. "So, doing good?"

"Yeah," you reply, a little uncertain. "Why?"

"Nothing! Just checking," she says, hands on her hips. "See you this weekend, then?"

"Yeah," you echo. "Unless you've got other plans."

She shakes her head. "Nope! No other plans."

You don't say anything, mainly because you're completely lost.

She wrinkles her nose suddenly, almost like she's trying not to grimace, then gives you a tap on the shoulder.

"Kay, then. See ya."

She starts to walk away, and that's when you burst out laughing, because you've finally worked out what's going on.

She got you out of class with three texts and a one-word location just to check if you're doing okay.

She misses you. That's all this is. The same questions you've been carrying are probably plaguing her too.

Oh, you love her so much.

"What?" she asks.

"Is that it? Is that why you called me all the way out here?" you ask, still laughing.

She looks so thoroughly lost, it's kind of cute. "Well, the cameras here don't work."

You let out a long, amused breath, then open your arms. "Come here."

Still looking just as confused, she walks into your embrace. You hold her tight, breathing in her scent and the warmth her coat has soaked up from the shy sunlight.

"I missed you too," you whisper against her. Your only answer is her arms tightening around you. And that's how you know you're absolutely in the same boat.

After that one time, meeting behind Alfred Denny's becomes a sort of routine for the two of you. The second time she calls you there, it's to pass on a message for the rest of the class. The third, to ask if she could bring K9's remnants over to yours so she could work on it. On the fourth, she had no excuse.

So, you kissed.

And that's what you do all the other times after that.

She calls, you answer, even in the middle of class. After a few weeks of that, you're barely paying attention to lectures anymore. Your day has basically two modes: you've seen her and you're already looking forward to the next time, or you haven't seen her yet and you're counting the minutes until she texts you again.

The rest of your life starts to blur around the edges. Lectures fade. Assignments stop mattering. The future you're actually interested in building feels distant from any of that.

And that's how you decide to drop out.

On the last day of the semester, on a sunny July afternoon, without telling anyone, you head to the student centre and officially begin the withdrawal process. They (barely) try to talk you out of it, to no avail. You step out of the building and just breathe out, relieved.

On one hand, relief. On the other, now you kind of need to tell someone.

Someone.

You pull out your phone — hand just a little cold, but you refuse to call that nerves — find her contact, and start typing.

Doctor, can we talk?

You stare at it for a few seconds, divided on whether to send it or not (maybe you should do it after you've gotten her those Portuguese toasts she likes so much!) and before you do, another text comes in.

What's up?

Argh, never saying that again.

Can we talk?

Oh, the irony.

You walk all the way to your usual spot, muttering "you just have to say it" like a mantra. You just have to say it. You just have to say it. You just have to—

You walk behind the pillar. You look at her, she looks at you. Her eyes are almost blue in the sunlight.

You blink.

And you say it.

"I quit," she says first.

"I qui— You what?"

"You what?!" she asks, wrinkling her nose.

"What do you mean?!"

"No, no, no, no," she says, shaking a finger at you. "What do you mean? What exactly are we quitting here?"

"I dropped out," you explain.

Her reaction tells you she'd understood just right. She walks a few steps toward you with her hands out in fists, like she wants to squeeze you, then turns away and walks a few steps in the opposite direction.

You swallow hard, but keep your voice steady. "It's already done. You can't change my mind."

When she turns back to you, she looks genuinely heartbroken.

You don't want to cave, though, so you ask, "What are you quitting?"

"I just quit my job," she says, like it's obvious. "Because I wanted you to get through the rest of uni without the distraction! And honestly because I didn't want Colin breathing down my neck anymore. Don't like being told what to do."

"Well, I didn't want Colin breathing down my neck either. We're even."

"That wasn't the plan!" she exclaims, frustrated (and you shouldn't be thinking about how adorable her voice sounds when she's annoyed, the way she raises it just this much, and how it makes you want to kiss her).

(Definitely not the time to dwell on that.)

"Well, if I hadn't dropped out already, I would now," you say. "Why would I want to stay if you weren't my professor anymore?"

"Because!" she throws out her arms, like it should be obvious. "Why did you do that?"

"Because," you echo, trying to lighten the mood.

She chuckles dryly, unamused, so you decide to give her a proper explanation. "Doctor, the truth is that engineering wasn't my first choice. It wasn't even my second, if I'm honest. I wanted to start my life over, and this —" you open your arms, gesturing to the space around you "— was the first thing that came along. It gave me new knowledge. It got me closer to Ryan. And it gave me you. I appreciate your concern, but I needed to make that decision for myself. The only reason I was still coming was you."

The Doctor frowns, almost like she doesn't know what to do with that information. Then her hands fly to her hips and stay there.

She hums.

"No clever comeback?" you ask, amused.

"Shh. I'm thinking," she replies, frown deepening more than you thought possible.

Suddenly, she snaps her fingers. "Got it," she mutters mostly to herself, before looking back at you with a smug grin, chin tilted up. "Okay. We're both quitting, then."

"Yeah…" you reply, a little apprehensive. "We are."

"Good. Great, even! Best news ever."

"Okay, now you're being weird," you say, chuckling nervously.

"See you on the weekend?" she cuts in, voice so light and casual you're genuinely thrown.

Still. You nod. "It's a date."

Plot twist: it wasn't a date.

It's a Saturday morning, your first on break, and the first after quitting. You're in bed, as people usually are. Intending to sleep in, as people usually do.

With a loud bang, your bedroom door flies open. You sit up with a start, holding your breath, only for it to be:

"Good morning! Rise and shine and all that!" the Doctor — because of course it's her — exclaims in a high-pitched, way too excited tone. "I brought everything we need. We start today."

You blink a few times, vision still blurred and brain still slow, struggling to work out if you'd agreed to something this early — 6am, if your phone is right — on your first free Saturday.

"Start… what?" you manage.

"Oh, didn't I mention? Your engineering lessons."

"My… what?!" you ask, brain finally catching up.

"Wait for you in the kitchen?" And without waiting for a reply: "Okay, I'm over there."

She closes the door.

You sigh. "Where are the kidnapping parasites when you need them?"

Sure enough, there she is in the kitchen: the love of your life, sitting cross-legged inside her alien ship, surrounded by what can only be equally alien contraptions. She taps the ground next to her, motioning you to sit. You suddenly feel like you're back in primary school, it's your first day and you're about to be introduced to all your little mates. In this case, the contraptions around you.

Frowning and still a little confused, you sit where she motioned.

"Are these alien? Are we going to freaking space?" you ask.

"When I pull that lever there," she starts, pointing at the ship's console, "I never really know where the TARDIS is gonna take us. You don't drive her, you negotiate with her. It's not so much travelling as it is a conversation, you know."

She looks at you expectantly, making sure you're following. You nod.

"I've seen the most beautiful wonders of this universe, I've watched stars born and die," she says with a warm grin. Then her face falls. "But I've also lost so much. Too much. And it gets to a point where you start learning a thing or two."

After a brief pause, she turns to you again. "I can't be all that you have. I wish I could — I wish I could promise you everything would always be alright and you'd always be safe with me. But I can't. What I can do is give you the tools to have your own back, wherever we end up in this big, old universe. Got it?"

You nod.

"So, no, we're not going to space today. But," she waves her finger at your sleepy face, "you're not sleeping in either, mate. We've got loads of stuff to do. So go on, go wash your face and brush your teeth or whatever it is you humans do, then come back here. For lesson one," she finishes, triumphant.

Still a little drowsy, but with your heart a little warmer than before, you do as you're told.

Little by little, you settle into a new routine. Without uni in your lives, most of your time is spent in her company, sharing in her knowledge and her beauty, absorbing as much as possible from her seemingly infinite years of life.

Even outside the classroom, her teaching is still as beautifully chaotic as you'd expect. For materials science, she shows you an alien alloy that shouldn't exist by Earth's periodic table rules but behaves like mercury anyway, so it's all fine. Statics becomes a lesson on why ancient Martian infrastructure is actually the best in the universe. For circuits, there's organic circuitry that only works if you praise it, which some planets use instead of copper wire.

Then there's the actual engineering. You kick that off by month two — as expected, she'd never stay too far from a welding kit if she had a say in it — which is when she just stops explaining where things are from and starts expecting you to follow along.

And you do. You'd follow her anywhere in the universe.

That does mean sometimes following her into a short circuit in your flat.

Not your old flat, though. The new one — the one downtown, the one you dreamed of sharing with her. She even chipped in — turns out a hundred years of unused wages goes a long way — and now the carpet is navy blue, the front door is TARDIS blue, and the walls shine golden, like her eyes.

You couldn't have asked for anything more.

Of course, not everything is a bed of roses.

Sometimes you catch yourself in the mirror, noticing a few new lines that weren't there when you first met her. To her credit, the Doctor looks… slightly older too.

That might be a problem down the line.

There's still so much about her you don't know, and even more she won't tell you. You see it in the way she sometimes stops mid-sentence, or freezes at the sight of something tied to her past. You know it's not personal, but you can't help hoping that someday she'll trust you enough to let you in.

You also hope that one day she'll trust you enough to take you somewhere in the universe, anywhere at all. You've never been obsessed with the idea of travelling in the TARDIS — to the past, to the future, or even to other planets — not when you've seen how much pain it's caused the Doctor. But it does seem like it could be life-changing. And fun, too.

And sometimes, late at night, you catch her standing by the window, eyes fixed on the sky, locked on the glow of the moon and stars.

You know she misses them more than anything in the universe.

So, when you can confidently tell a Venusian warp drive from a Draconian flux capacitor, you convince her to take you to Earth's atmosphere. You sit at the edge of the TARDIS, drinking tea.

After that, she takes you to the space station. Then to the moon.

And finally, to a tiny planet at the edge of your solar system.

It's so small, and actually flat, which makes it perfect for seeing the entire galaxy from anywhere on its surface.

She shows you all the stars your eyes can see, and even the ones they can't. She knows all their names, their stories, their destinies.

Her eyes shine so bright, her smile so wide, that the only word that crosses your mind is… universe.

And in that moment, as you watch her excitedly explain why Alpha Centauri is actually a one-eyed diplomat and not quite the constellation you remember, you know: she is the universe.

You have learned from your old ways, though, and decided not to totally neglect the rest of your life. You, Ryan, Graham and Yaz — the fam, as you started to call yourselves (much to Ryan's horror) — ended up forming a bond out of your shared trauma. Every now and then, the four of you meet to talk about life, reminisce about that day, and hear about your latest stories of alien knowledge. Grace is blissfully unaware of that last part — you've all agreed it's best not to make her worry about aliens in Sheffield.

Ryan, speaking of him, graduates with honours. He's now a Bachelor of Science in Mechanical Engineering, cum laude — the first student with a disability to ever receive that distinction at the University of Sheffield.

Yaz hasn't been so fortunate. After the whole alien ordeal, she — like all of you — expected her career to advance. Real police work, chances to make a difference, Yaz had said. In reality, not much has changed. She's still a probationer, still doing parking disputes, still wanting more. She doesn't complain, not exactly. But you see the way her eyes light up when the Doctor starts telling a story. She's looking for something bigger than Sheffield.

And one day, almost two years after your disappearance, Yaz gets the Doctor to sit down and tell her about Asha's case. What actually happened sounds like everyday to you, but is earth-shattering for Yaz: an alien called Tim Shaw (you're absolutely sure that's not his actual name) from the icy Stenza race, was on a hunt for a prize. In this case, Asha. The Doctor almost missed her by just this much.

"And how come she didn't remember anything?" Yaz asks.

The Doctor doesn't even blink. "Dunno. Trauma, maybe?"

You have a feeling you know what actually happened, though.

Everything changes the day you have an idea.

You've just been with the fam, a few weeks after Ryan's graduation. He hasn't landed a job yet and can't help feeling like something's missing. Yaz feels it too and, much to your surprise, even Graham does. They reminisce about the day everything happened almost like they miss it.

So when you get home, you ask the Doctor something you're sure she never saw coming: a trip in the TARDIS. With all of them.

"Absolutely not!" is her immediate response.

"It could be a quick one, like the ones you've taken me on so far!" you offer. "A thank-you trip, just to get their blood pumping again."

"Nope, not happening!"

Then you go for the killing blow. "They need help, Doctor. Isn't that what you do, help people?"

She rocks back on her heels so hard you think she's going to tip over, debating with herself and evidently losing. When she straightens up, she lets out a deep sigh.

"Fine! Just one tiny, minuscule trip," she concedes. "Just the one! But you're the one explaining the TARDIS to Graham."

***

It's the day you've agreed to meet. Ryan, Graham and Yaz are standing in your living room, facing the TARDIS. The Doctor is working nervously at the console, muttering to herself and occasionally to you.

You lean on the door frame, giving them a thumbs up. "Ready, you lot?"

"Ready!" Yaz chimes in.

"Yeah, think so," Ryan shrugs.

"No!" Graham exclaims.

You laugh, choosing to ignore the subtle desperation in Graham's voice.

"And remember," you grin, "it's bigger on the inside." Mostly because you can't wait to see their faces when they finally step inside the ship you've talked about so much.

The unison, gobsmacked "whoa" is everything you were hoping for.

"But… it was a police box," Graham says. "How does all of this fit inside a police box?"

"Dimensional engineering," the Doctor calls out, climbing down the console steps to join you. "No biggie!"

"Seems pretty big to me," Ryan chuckles, eyes roaming over the interior.

"You can't engineer dimensions," Yaz says.

"Maybe you can't," the Doctor quips, then claps her hands together. "So, pitstop on the moon?"

"Yeah, yeah, but look — we gotta be back in time for Pointless," Graham says, already checking his watch.

The Doctor's eyebrows flash up at you. "Didn't you do the explanations?"

You smile, a little bashful, then turn back to him. "Right, yeah. Graham, this is a time machine too. We can all be back the moment we left."

He seems to consider it for a moment. "How does that—"

But she's already running up the stairs again, all excitement and flapping coattail. "Off we go, then! Fasten your seatbelts!"

"She means grab a pillar," you whisper to them. "It’s about to get bumpy."

They share a puzzled look that doesn’t last long. As if on cue, the TARDIS engines start, followed by a thump, and you’re all thrown off your feet.

"Okay, this is a little worse!" you groan, struggling to stay upright.

Taking a look over your shoulder at the Doctor, you find her punching buttons in the console. She pulls down a lever and, with a grumble, the ship jolts all of you again.

"What is actually happening?!" Yaz screams, holding one of the pillars like her life depends on it.

"Sorry, guys," the Doctor offers with a sigh.

"It's this thing, innit?" Graham asks, helping a dizzy Ryan off the floor.

"Don't call her a thing, Graham," the Doctor says, throwing him an offended look, before turning her attention back to the console. "She's complaining about being sick, like she's got a stomach bug—"

"What? The ship?!" Ryan asks, legitimately thrown.

"—and when she's like this, she won't take us anywhere," she finishes. "Sorry."

"So we're still in my living room?" you ask.

She takes a quick look at a display, then nods.

"Oh, this is a letdown," you say, unconsciously placing your hands on your waist just the way she does it. "Isn't there anything we can do?"

"We can wait it out," she answers, and everyone (except Graham) groans. "Or…"

"Or?" Yaz prompts.

"It's a bit risky," the Doctor warns, giving all of you a look. "Bit of a jury rig."

"I'm in," says Ryan. "We're all in, aren't we?"

Graham rubs his chin, like he's starting to regret accepting your invitation. After a beat, he smiles. "Yep, we're in."

Yaz's eyes light up at Ryan. "Yeah! We're in."

The Doctor smiles warmly, almost shy for a brief second. Then she's in motion again, swirling around the console like a dance only she and the TARDIS know the steps to.

"Cool, so we're doing this. Cause the thing is, she won't take us anywhere that might make her feel worse," she explains. "But what if we went somewhere that made her feel better?"

"Like the equivalent of a hospital?" you ask.

"Bingo! Gold star for my apprentice engineer!"

You flash a smug grin at Ryan, who only rolls his eyes.

"There's this planet I know where they grow a specific type of flower my TARDIS absolutely loves," she goes on. "Course, I haven't been there in forever—"

Suddenly, a memory resurfaces in your mind like a flash, making you lose focus on her words.

You remember the first day you were in her office and the dream you had, which you understood nothing of back then, but it's starting to make sense now.

"Oh my God, Doctor!" you exclaim, running up the steps to meet her. "I know what we have to do! We need to get this flower thing for the TARDIS!"

She frowns. "Okay, yeah, we do. But how d'you know that? That wasn't in our curriculum."

"Remember the dream I told you about?" you ask.

She squints, pouting her lips.

"That day you had me locked in the Ghostbusters' psychic field — without my permission, if I may say so myself — and I ended up having a dream—"

"Right," she cuts in, suddenly looking really uncomfortable. "Yeah, I remember it. Why don't we—"

A bit cluelessly, and a little too proud of yourself for knowing the answer to a question she hadn't asked, you go on. "We were on this planet, all of us. And then we were looking for this alien flower, until someone started shooting at us."

"Nooo, no, no, no, no! Stop right there!" she exclaims.

"Hold on a minute," Yaz says, coming closer to where you are. "Did I hear that right? We're about to be shot?"

"More important question," Graham joins in. "Did we survive? Cause, really, I was told this would be a quick trip."

"No, we survived," you reply. "But we had to run for our lives, because whoever was shooting at us wanted the TARDIS. And then—"

The Doctor, who had been shifting uncomfortably in her shoes, silences you with her hands over your mouth.

"Do not talk about anything else, under any circumstance!"

"What's wrong?" Ryan asks, having joined the rest of you near the console. "Why can't we talk about it?"

"Because the problem with knowing the future is that now we're bound to it," she explains, letting go of your face. "Now, we need to go to Kanus, because she said she saw all of us there. And someone will have to shoot at us, because she said someone will!"

"Oops," you grimace, half-playful, half-regretful.

"Kanus?" Graham asks.

"It's where they grow this type of flower," she answers.

"If you've been there before, could they be shooting at you specifically, for some reason?" Yaz asks.

"Yeah, probably," she replies, wrinkling her nose.

"Oh, is that right, Doctor?" you ask, suddenly feeling very interested in that thread. "What did you do?"

"Long story," she shoots back.

"Can't we just find another place where they have this type of flower?" Ryan asks.

"No, we can't— Alright, enough questions!" the Doctor exclaims, making you feel like you're back in the classroom. "You lot, you love to chat, I get it. Yes, they might be shooting at me—" she says, looking at Yaz, then at you, "I'm not sure why—" then, before he even gets to say anything, at Graham, "—and I didn't forget about Pointless either. You all heard her dream: we need to go to Kanus now, cure the TARDIS' stomach bug, then we'll deal with the rest when it arrives. Deal?"

Without thinking, all of you — including Graham — reply: "Deal!"

Without missing a beat, the Doctor is at work again, typing coordinates in that flashy way of hers. She pulls down the takeoff lever and the TARDIS hums, almost like she's considering it.

And then, with a wheeze and a groan, she takes off.

The fam is all excitement and nervousness, laughter and chatter. You're thrown off balance, stumbling forward, only to be caught by a warm hand.

The Doctor steadies you, and for just a second, the chaos fades. Her eyes meet yours, golden in the amber light.

"You okay?" she asks.

You smile. "With you? Always."

You walk up to her, collecting whatever courage you have. You're here to feel alive, after all. You're not going to manage that by skulking in the shadows.

Up close, you notice two important things: one, she isn't wearing a ring; two, she hasn't actually ordered a drink yet.

That's your opening.

"Perdón," you say, clearing your throat. "¿Puedo invitarte a una copa?"

The beautiful woman finally graces you with her attention. Up close, you notice the fine lines around her eyes and brow, a map of experience that suggests she's likely somewhere in her forties. She's frowning now, but in a way that lifts her eyebrows rather than knits them together. Something flickers behind those hazel-green eyes, a spark you might have mistaken for anger if you had more time to study it.

You suspect this might be a 'no' — and far be it from you to push — but you decide to clarify your intent anyway.

"Te ves sola." You tell her she looks alone, hoping the phrase lands as an invitation rather than an insult in this part of Marbella.

She scoffs, gaze drifting back to the cluttered shelves behind the bar. "Did you get that out of a book or something?" she asks with a weary sigh, already rehearsing the refusal.

"As a matter of fact, yes," you reply, offering a small, honest smile. "I did. My Spanish is a bit rusty, I'm afraid. I'm glad you speak English."

She doesn't offer a name or a smile. She just raises her eyebrows — a small acknowledgement of your honesty — and lets the silence sit between you.

You drag an empty wooden stool beside her and settle onto it, which makes her appear slightly taller. From this angle, you can study her profile without feeling too intrusive. You find yourself carefully analysing every detail, searching for anything that might tell you more about the woman standing in front of you. Her attention is on her hands, resting on the counter, thumb rubbing a slow, rhythmic circle into her palm. You wonder if she's just as nervous as you are.

"What's your name?" you ask.

Her hands go still. She lifts her head, contained impatience flickering across her face. When she turns fully, her eyes read yours with practiced intensity, as if she's spent a lifetime dissecting people and has just started on you.

"Why do you want to know?" she finally asks, voice steady.

You get the distinct impression that she's used to being defensive, or perhaps she feels she needs to be. You simply want her to have a good time with you, nothing more, but managing that without pushing her away is clearly going to be your challenge for the night.

Carefully choosing your words, you offer her a smile. "Because I'm going to buy you a drink, and I'd like to know who I'm buying it for."

You promise yourself that a clear no is all it would take for you to back off. You could find other ways to entertain yourself tonight, though none would be quite as interesting, or as beautiful, or as beautifully interesting, as her.

She considers you a moment longer, fingers tapping the counter before she presses her lips together. You're already bracing for the rejection when—

"Sam," she says, extending her hand.

You beam at the small opening she's given you. Taking her hand, you tell her your name. "Delighted." Then, without breaking eye contact, you lift her knuckles to your lips.

She tries to look inconvenienced, but a smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.

With her, red means go, it seems.

"So, gin and tonic?" you ask, pulling your stool a little closer. "Seems to be the order of the day around here."

"I'm driving," she says, almost triumphant, pleased to burst your Sam-shaped bubble. "So you'll have to drink alone."

You laugh. "Then what are you doing in a bar?" you shoot back, half curious for a real answer — which never comes. She only turns away again, studying the tankards above and shaking her head.

But she's smiling.

"It's okay, I'll get you a soft drink. They must sell those here."

Without waiting for a reply, you flag the bartender and order two Cokes.

This time, she turns her body fully toward you. Anyone who studies body language would call that progress, a bigger opening. You don't label it, your mind and eyes are busy with something else. Namely, the work of art that is Sam.

She's in worn-in jeans and a belt you try very hard not to picture on the floor. She's mostly legs, which is a relief; you'd rather not dwell on her torso. The tank top doesn't help, not with the way it hugs her just right, or the way her necklace stands out against the dark blue under the bar lights.

When your gaze finally returns to her face, she's watching you closely.

"What do you want?" she asks, more curious than hostile.

You lift your glass to hide your smile, teeth grazing the rim. The sweet, acidic taste touches your tongue as your eyes drop to her mouth. Sam lets out an incredulous little laugh and looks away.

You stand, moving a fraction closer into her space while still leaving her plenty of room to walk away.

"Okay, okay. Honestly? I just want to feel alive again," you say, laughing at yourself. "And I think that involves a Coke, a kiss, and figuring out why someone as beautiful as you would be alone in a bar when she's driving."

She tilts her chin up, eyebrows arching. Her hazel-green eyes search your face, still studying, still weighing you.

So you keep teasing. "Especially at a place that only takes cash. No traces left behind…"

"Mm, are you Sherlock Holmes now?" she asks, genuinely amused.

"I don't know," you say. "If you identify as a mystery, I can certainly be."

That draws a real laugh out of her. The corners of her eyes crinkle, which, combined with the sound of her laughter, makes you feel almost dizzy.

So much for a quick decision. You've walked into a trap you didn't see coming, one you set for yourself. You need her now, and Sam…

She steps closer, and your heart stutters. For all your talk, it's been a long time since you've done anything like this.

Her gaze drops to your lips, and you take that as an invitation to inch forward. She doesn't back away, but her brow draws together. She turns her head to the side, her curls brushing your nose, and that's when you realise just how close you already are. With her head still turned, she bites her bottom lip, pouting.

Carefully, you tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Her eyes close and she exhales a deep, shaky sigh.

"Fuck's sake," she mutters.

And then, she kisses you.

It isn't rushed the way you'd expect. For someone kissing a stranger, she's surprisingly careful, so much so you feel yourself melting into her. She catches your bottom lip and sucks slowly, leaving you almost too stunned to react. You kiss her back, knowing the balance shifted in her favour the second your mouths met. She keeps you there, lips locked, until she needs to breathe.

You don't let her, not yet. You lean in again, catching her mouth half-open, your tongue grazing hers. Sam responds immediately, sweeping her tongue around yours.

You stay like that for a while, until her hands slide to your waist. She draws you closer, pressing your body firmly into hers. You loop your arms around her neck, using her shoulders to steady yourself as you try to grind against her.

She breaks the kiss. Her green eyes are dark now as she searches your face, surprise flickering in the way she studies you. You're close enough to feel her breath against your mouth, and you breathe her in. The pull low in your stomach tightens, insisting on more.

You lift your hand and carefully trace her lips. They're soft, warm, and still slightly wet from your kiss. Her eyes flutter shut when you touch her, and your chest tightens. It doesn't seem like she's used to this kind of attention, maybe not in a long time.

Which is why you close the gap again and kiss her, hungrier this time. She meets you head-on, taking control of the pace, slowing you down or urging you on. Her tongue never stops moving against yours, even as her hand comes up to hold your chin between her fingers, keeping you exactly where she wants you.

Your hands, which had been resting on her shoulders, wander down her torso, grazing over her breasts to the hem of her trousers. You tug — and she answers with a low groan, before turning you hard against the counter—

"¡Oye!" the bartender calls out, rapping his knuckles on the wood next to you. "¡Anda, que no es plan!"

The two of you jump, and heat rushes to your cheeks. Sam stares at the bartender, lips pressed into a tight line, annoyance written all over her face. Her chest is heaving against yours. She feels like a storm held together by will alone, heavy clouds always gathering behind her eyes.

You finally manage an apologetic glance at the man behind the counter, and he just shrugs. "Aquí se viene a beber, no a esto."

He's right. The bar was full when you came in, and it's even more crowded now: groups of friends, couples, people dancing, a little bit of everything. You don't particularly want the attention and, from what little Sam has shown you, neither does she.

She turns back to you, still irritated. "Now what?"

"You said you're driving?"

She hesitates for a fraction of a second, then nods. "Yeah. Come on."

She drains the Coke you bought her, and after you pay, you follow her outside.

Her car is parked a few feet down the road: an old red Mazda, compact, long straight hood, four doors and just enough room. You feel almost ashamed for thinking that last part.

She stops at the car and fits the key into the driver's-side lock while you wait by the passenger door. Before she turns it, she lets out a deep sigh and looks up at you.

"Look, I've got to make this clear," she says. "This is a one night only thing. When we're done, you go your way and I'll go mine."

You nod immediately. You weren't expecting anything else from this encounter anyway.

She seems a little relieved, though those clouds never quite steer too far from her eyes. She gives you a small smile and unlocks the door. "Do you live around here?"

"No, I live in Estepona," you answer without thinking. "Why?"

She tips her head back, studying the sky, lips pressed into a tight line. "That's what, forty minutes? My place is closer."

Then she slides into the driver's seat — and that's when you finally realise what's happening.

You get inside the car, eyeing the two seats behind you. "Wait, but… what's wrong with the car?"

"I'm not a fucking teenager," she says, like it should be obvious, cranking the key in the ignition. "I need enough space to fuck. You'll get there one day."

You don't have the presence of mind to hide your shock, or the rush of delight at her bluntness. You can't even come up with something to soften the joke about her age as you fumble for your seatbelt. A giggle escapes you, helpless, and you clamp your thighs together.

Not exactly the sexiest sound you've ever made.

The drive is quiet. Sam doesn't seem like the type to smother silence with small talk, and you find you actually like that. Instead of talking, you use the time to think about how fast this is moving, and to watch her.

She's a puzzle. Yes, you've only just met her, but everything about her feels contradictory. She won't drink, but she's in a bar. She's blunt, but kind. She wants nothing to do with you after tonight, but she's taking you to her house. It feels like there's a part of her she keeps permanently locked.

You can't help wondering if she's really letting you in — and why.

Sensing your scrutiny, she glances over. "Thinking?"

You don't answer right away. The white and yellow lights of the road streak across the glass and wash over her. She drives one-handed, the other arm resting on the open window. The wind is cool against your face, carrying the faint scent of her hair product.

It's almost too much. You're almost pulled to lean in and kiss her.

Instead, you clear your throat. "I was meaning to ask, where are you?"

"In the hills," she replies, without missing a beat.

"Oh, wow," you breathe. "That's far."

She hums. "Closer than Estepona." After a beat, "Still want to do this?"

You look at her again. The road has narrowed to a dark, twisting strip. It makes sense, since you're heading into the hills. Sam handles it like it's nothing, though, following each bend by muscle memory. The only sign it's any work at all is the flex of her biceps.

Your gaze snags there, tracking the shift of muscle every time she turns the wheel. It drifts down to her hands, knuckles tight on the steering wheel, veins standing out as she moves — and you swallow hard.

Noticing your silence, she throws you another glance. When she finds your eyes focused on her hands, she raises her eyebrows at you.

Letting out a puff of air, you slide down the window next to you, desperate for some air.

"For goodness's sake," you finally answer. "Drive faster."

You're almost nodding off by the time you arrive. You're not in the habit of taking rides with strangers — much less going home with them to fuck — but there's something about Sam's presence that makes you instinctively trust her.

The sleepiness drops the moment you see the house. You know it's hers before she says anything: it's the only one out here, a large spread of land sitting on top of the hill.

She parks near a low stall where a black-and-white donkey stands dozing. A few trees dot the property, and the grass is unevenly cut, long in patches, short in others. It gives the whole place a quietly rural feel.

"You have a donkey!" you blurt as you climb out of the car.

"And some chickens," she says, smiling. She turns toward the house and jerks her chin for you to follow. "This way."

You trail after her, and you think — oh, you fear — that something dangerous is already blooming inside you, surging up before anything's even happened. Why does it feel so special to be here, like she's laying herself bare before either of you has shed a single piece of clothing?

She waits for you at the front door, holding it open. You murmur a quick thanks as you step into the living room. It's large but cosy, helped by the dark yellow walls. A dining table sits near the entrance, and a couple of sofas face a big TV.

When you look back at Sam, she's rubbing the tips of her fingers, watching you with a kind of guarded apprehension. Your gazes lock and, after a few seconds, she offers you another small, almost shy smile.

"Ah." She clears her throat, turning to close the door. "I'm gonna grab something for us to drink. Make yourself at home."

While she disappears into one of the rooms, your eyes wander, taking in every detail. There's a bookshelf to the left, close to one of the doors, and you drift toward it. A few portraits of a younger Sam sit on the top shelf, and a record player occupies the bottom. You let your fingers walk through the small stack of vinyl beside it until one stops you: Every Breath You Take.

Hoping she doesn't find that slightly stalkery of you, you put it on. For the vibes.

Just then, she reappears, carrying a bottle of wine in one hand and two glasses in the other. She's taken her shoes off, and without them she appears to be slightly smaller. Watching her walk toward you is enough to make your heart turn somersaults. She is that beautiful, even more so inside her own space.

Sam doesn't seem to notice you looking. Her eyes fall on the record player and she smirks.

"Nice choice," she says. "I don't feel threatened at all."

That gets a genuine laugh out of you. "Just focus on the bass line, not the lyrics."

Still wearing that irresistible smirk, she arches an eyebrow at you as she pours wine into both glasses. "Oh, I see."

She offers you one and you take it. The wine is warm and bittersweet going down, settling somewhere near your heart — or maybe that's her fault, or the damn bass line threading through the background, taunting you as you watch her every move.

The drink is quick to work its magic, its warmth washing away what little inhibition you had left. You feel lighter, happier, hungrier for the woman in front of you.

Said woman seems lost in her own little world for a moment, savouring the wine and occasionally stealing glances at you. But when the song reaches I feel so cold, and I long for your embrace, she reaches out with her free hand and pulls you closer. Her hand rests on your shoulder, then trails up to your neck. Your eyes flutter shut, and a pleased sigh escapes you, her touch alone enough to undo you.

Sam seems amused by your reaction, breathing a small laugh against your face.

"Where did all that wit and bravery go?" she asks, teasing.

"It got me here, didn't it?" you reply with a breathless laugh.

But she's got a point. Ever since she touched you, you've felt the ground shift slightly under your feet. Not that you can be blamed for it, not when she's out here effortlessly looking like a piece of art.

Still, you bring your hands up to trace her arms, feeling the strength beneath her soft skin. She shudders, just slightly, and you think you just evened the score without even trying.

You let your hands travel down to her waist, pulling her closer. You begin to sway slowly to the beat, and she responds by resting her arms on your shoulders. Being this close, there's nowhere to look but her face — and you find that to be your biggest mistake.

Under the low yellow light, Sam's eyes shine a muted shade of green. You can trace every line time has left on her face, and you want to kiss them all. Her hair smells so good it's almost pulling you in.

The song ends, and she takes the chance to pull back a few inches and reach for her glass, sitting on the edge of the counter beside the now-silent record player. You're watching her when she turns back.

"Don't," she says.

"What?"

"Look at me like that," she finishes, setting her glass down again.

That takes you aback. What did she find in your gaze? What have you been telling her without realising it?

"How do you want me to look at you, then?" you ask.

Her eyes widen just slightly, searching yours. The sky behind them looks less clouded than it did at the bar, the heaviness replaced by something softer, aimed directly at you.

And while you're busy studying her, she kisses you. It's warm and tender — very much so — and you can taste the wine on her lips. She wraps her arms around your neck, keeping you close as she deepens the kiss. You're almost dizzy, drunk on her, by the time you break apart.

Your eyes flutter open and meet hers. Her cheeks are slightly flushed, her breathing just a beat too fast. Then, she smiles.

"Like this," she says, answering the question you'd already forgotten you'd asked.

Something shifts when she says that, something primal, surging up from within you. If this is how she wants to be looked at, you're more than ready to give her that.

This time you kiss her first, surging forward to catch her lips. Your hands find the hem of her trousers, telling her what you want. Her hand comes up to hold your chin, firmly, keeping you exactly where she wants you.

But you keep pushing, not willing to give her the lead just yet. When her lips part a certain way, you take the chance to catch her bottom lip between your teeth and bite down softly. She moans — maybe because of that, or because your hands have wandered under her shirt — and falters, taking a small step back. You push her again, until her back meets the record player, still faithfully spinning its hiss and pop. With that, her empty glass tips to the floor.

Both of you stare down at it, panting, and you're already scrambling for something to say.

"I— I'm sorry, I—" you try, but nothing more comes out. You can't think straight. Every thought circles back to Sam's wine-dark lips and how badly you want to feel her body pressed against yours again.

Still, you manage to take a step back and crouch down to retrieve the glass.

When you look up, though… Here you are, on your knees, in front of this spectacle of a woman. Sam isn't even looking down at you. She's looking to the side, breathing hard, eyes shut and lips pressed together, trying to contain whatever is burning inside her.

But you want to feel that fire.

Instead of getting up, you shift on your knees until you're facing her waist directly. Just then, she looks down, understanding flashing in her eyes.

She doesn't move to stop you. You run your hands up from her thighs to the waistband, fingers finding the belt first. You pull it loose, slow, letting the leather slip free. Her stomach goes perfectly still, breath held for what she knows is coming.

You smile. Her trousers fall to her feet.

Looking up at her, you let your hands run over her thighs and down to her calves, easing her out of the trousers still pooled at her feet. Your hands are shaking on the way back up, all the way to the hem of her boxers. When you touch them, you look up for her eyes, only to find them already on you.

You smile again. Because really, what else can you do when you're gifted with a sight like this. Sam's chest is heaving, her chestnut curls falling across her face.

You inch closer, still studying her, and press a kiss to her lower stomach. Her breath hitches so you do it again, lower this time. Then lower, then lower still, until the only thing keeping your mouth from her pussy is the thin fabric of her boxers. You press light kisses through it, relishing the warmth of her skin, while your hands travel up her legs and come to rest on her hips.

When you look up again, you have to hold back a laugh. If you didn't know any better — given how tight her lips are pressed together, and how hard she's curling her fists — you'd think she was about to smack you.

You'd think that, if not for the pure want you find in her eyes. For all her tough act, she's relishing having you exactly where you are.

She wants you there. And you want so much more.

As if reading your thoughts, she uncurls one fist with a slow, heavy breath. That hand goes straight to the nape of your neck. She tugs your hair and pushes you forward.

And that is all the confirmation you need.

In one swift move, you pull her boxers down to her knees, and gravity does the rest. There's nothing between you and her now, and neither of you wants to waste time. You slip her leg over your shoulder for better access, just as her hand pushes you forward again, until your lips meet her pussy. The moment that happens, she tugs your hair hard, muttering something under her breath that sounds like 'fucking hell', her tough-girl act already starting to crack.

Your hands hold her by the thighs — steadying yourself while letting her feel on her skin what she's making you feel — and you run your tongue through her outer lips. Sweat and sweetness mix in a way that makes her taste uniquely like herself. She lets out something like a choked, reluctant moan, her reactions making you feel almost too good at this.

You do that again and again, teasing her before you move to her clit. She's wet — and truly might be the best anyone has ever tasted — but her clit is still hiding under its hood. So you take a different approach. Gently, you bring one hand up to pull it back, exposing her fully. Instead of just gliding your tongue over it, you close your mouth around it, sucking slowly while the tip of your tongue works her clit's tip.

"Oh, you—" she blurts out, stopping abruptly to swallow hard. "You fucking bastard."

You want to laugh, but you have a very serious task at hand: make her come. You try a few different things with your tongue, gauging her reaction. Sucking makes her chest heave, but she's still holding herself back. Gliding back and forth makes her cuss again. She's liking it, just not as much as you want her to.

It's when you're considering adding a finger that you try something new, you kiss her pussy the way you'd kiss her mouth, letting your tongue run the full length of her clit. When you hit a specific spot, she moans. It's a breathy, desperate sound.

And fuck, it's beautiful.

You know how to keep going, and that's exactly what you do. Adding a little more pressure, your tongue dances up and down, hitting that spot she liked so much. She moans, she gasps, she rides against your tongue. She keeps getting warmer and wetter, until even your chin is slick with her.

You make the mistake of looking up, only to find her gaze already locked on you. Her hips rock toward your mouth, the sight of it almost too much to take. But you can't look away from her eyes, from the hunger and the pride behind those cloudless skies.

Breathless, she chuckles. "You look so cute on your knees like that."

You blink a few times, and you even lose your rhythm for a second. Something about the way she says it — low, taunting — makes your stomach flip.

"You like this, don't you?" she goes on, smiling through gasps. "A little too much. Fucking little slut."

You moan against her, eyes shutting tight. Every part of you burns, and all she's doing is talking.

Just then, she tugs softly at your hair roots and whispers, "Make me come."

You don't know how you don't come right there yourself, but her wish is your command. Your hands hug her thighs close, and you give her your all, fast and strong, until your jaw starts to hurt.

You know she's coming when her other hand grips your shoulder, hard enough that you know you'll remember it for a long time. Then she lets out a ragged, desperate moan. You keep working until her hand leaves your shoulder, telling you it's over.

When you look up, she's still looking up herself, chest heaving, throat working with deep swallows. Then her gaze drops, and her eyes search yours.

Here you are, kneeling between her legs, still tasting her on your lips. And yet the most intimate thing you've done so far is this, staring into each other's eyes, sharing some kind of feeling you definitely shouldn't be.

Her hand leaves your neck, travelling to your chin. She lets her thumb graze your mouth, much like you'd done to her at the bar. You let your eyes fall shut — and that's when she moves, fast enough that it takes you a second to catch up. When you open your eyes again, she's kneeling in front of you, your arms raised above your head, shirt bunched halfway up your torso.

It doesn't take much more for her to pull it off completely.

She throws it to the side. "You won't be needing that."

"Wow," you breathe. "You're fast."

She raises her eyebrows, giving you a pouty smile. She's good at it, and she knows it.

You sit back on your heels to rest your knees, letting Sam tower over you. She moves closer, until her knees are on either side of yours. She brings her hands to your bare torso, running her fingers slowly until they reach your bra.

Unceremoniously, she removes it, letting it fall to the side where your shirt landed.

You think you should feel nervous now, with her eyes fixed on your boobs, leaving a trace of fire where they land on your skin. You're not nervous, though. You just want to be taken, to let her do whatever she wants with you.

She leans in to trail kisses down your neck, her hands running up your torso until they find your nipples. She squeezes them softly, then grazes them with her nails.

You take in a deep, shaky breath. This is too much and not enough, the warmth of her hands and mouth leaving you disoriented. Her kisses trail upward now, to your jaw, until her mouth finds yours again. She kisses you, hungry, her fingers drawing patterns on your skin.

Suddenly she moves again, this time bringing you with her, until your back hits the floor. She sits up, giving you a smug little smile, before her hands move quickly to unbutton your trousers and slide them off. Out of desperation, you take off your own underwear, tossing it onto the pile with the rest of your clothes.

Sam laughs. "Fuck, you're so fucking needy."

Instead of trying to prove her wrong, you open your legs wide and wrap them around her waist.

"Okay," she says, amused. "Show me what you've got. If I like it, you get a surprise." She ends it with her characteristic raised eyebrow, relishing every second of teasing you.

She begins to take her tank top off, and that's when your brain finally catches up to what she's asking. She wants to watch you, to see the effect she has on you undoing you with your own hands.

Your eyes roam shamelessly over her body as you bring your hand down and start rubbing your clit. You're wet, swollen, and sensitive — it doesn't take much to get you worked up. By the time she's finished undressing, you're already moaning her name.

Sam is beautiful. Your gaze doesn't know where to stop, where to look, when everything about her is just perfect. But especially — and she didn't have to be naked for you to notice this — her arms. Something about the way she moved them to undress, and how she's now raising them to fix her hair, is enough to undo you. You can see the muscles shifting beneath her skin, and suddenly everything is too much.

All the while, she's been watching you, and she hasn't been shy about it either. Whenever you catch her eyes, they've moved somewhere new on your body, a smile playing on her face, clearly enjoying the little show you're giving her.

When you're nearly there, she moves again, lowering herself until your faces are inches apart. Then she kisses you, and this time it feels like a reward. You stop touching yourself the moment her mouth meets yours. Her tongue traces from your chin to your bottom lip before finding yours. She captures your lips between hers until all you can feel is her.

Your hand moves to her back instead, fingers still wet. You drag them slowly over her skin — her back, her arm — wanting to leave your scent on her too.

She stops kissing you. Still inches away, she stays close, eyes on yours. There's a gleam in her gaze, a question mark that feels directed more at herself than at you.

Then she chuckles.

"Okay, you win," she says. "As promised—"

She gets up from the floor and heads to one of the rooms, throwing you a playful smile on her way out that still manages to melt your insides.

You sit up, dying to follow her, to know what it is you've won.

Then Sam comes back.

With a strap.

She's still adjusting the harness when she comes back in. The black straps hug her hips, holding a purple dildo in place. She grabs it in a frankly obscene way, making sure it's fixed.

When she looks at you, she laughs. "Wow. You should see your face right now."

She's right — you're gawking. A shiver runs down your spine as several thoughts cross your mind, all the ways she could use that on you.

"That's why you brought me all the way up here," you manage, laughing out of sheer surprise mixed with excitement. "'I need space to fuck', that was a load of bullshit!"

"It got me here, didn't it?" she replies, amused, throwing your own words back at you.

Then she tilts her head toward the room she'd just come out of. "Come on."

You laugh in barely contained excitement, getting up from the floor to follow her into the bedroom.

You don't pay much attention to her room, to be honest. The sheets are white — which could be a problem — the walls are yellow like the living room, and the windows are covered by white curtains. That's all you have time to register before Sam's hands are on your waist, pulling you closer.

Her hands are warm and her eyes are hungry. She pulls you in until you're inches apart. You can feel the strap pressed between your legs, close enough to make your breath hitch. Gripping you by the hips, she guides you back and forth against it, all the while kissing and nibbling at your neck. Your own hands travel over her skin, her arms, her back, her ass.

You make the mistake of tugging at the harness. Her mouth is on yours before you can process it — hard, insistent, nothing like the careful tenderness from before. This is hunger, pure and simple. She grips your hips tight, pulling you against her, and you gasp against her lips. She swallows the sound and deepens the kiss. Your hands tangle in her hair, but she's already moving you backward, step by step, until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed. She pulls back, lips hovering a breath away, and gives you a wicked smile. Then she pushes, just one hand on your chest, and you're sitting on her bed.

You don't even have time to catch your breath. She grabs the strap with one hand and your neck with the other, her index finger and thumb tilting your chin slightly up.

Then she rubs the tip of the strap against your lips.

She wants you to suck it.

Your eyes widen and your heart pounds. With your head held in place, all you can do is look at her.

And she's so beautiful.

Her eyes are completely dark now, and most of her curls have come loose. There's a playfulness about her, the certainty of someone who relishes being in control and knows she's found her match.

The strap presses against your lips again, pulling you out of your reverie.

"Open wide," she says, with a smile in her voice.

Your heart is beating everywhere at once.

You do as you're told, and she slides in.

Your lips stretch around the toy. She eases it halfway into your mouth, then pulls back, then pushes deeper, until you're taking all of it. The hand at your neck moves to the back of your head, fingers tugging your hair. She rocks your head back, then forward, back and forth, until you find the rhythm.

You're drooling, moaning, and all she does is speed up. Her hips move fast as she fucks your mouth, her eyes never leaving yours.

One thrust goes too deep and you gag. She pulls out immediately. You take a deep breath, trying to collect yourself, when her hands come to cup your face.

"Good girl," she all but whispers, wiping your chin with her thumbs. "You took me so well."

This time, you whine. Your clit is burning, your whole body tingling and warm. You need her to take you, and you need it now.

Wanting to show her that, you fall back onto the bed, the cold sheets meeting your skin. Shamelessly, you open your legs.

Sam, who's been watching you closely, laughs.

"You're so fucking easy," she says, genuinely amused.

You laugh too, despite yourself, feeling light and free. No thoughts in your head, other than her.

Your laughter stops the moment she climbs onto the bed. She kneels on the mattress, the strap brushing against your pussy. The sight of her, combined with the sensation, sends a jolt of adrenaline through your body, and you take another deep breath, trying to steady yourself.

"Are you ready for me?" she asks and, before you can reply, her hand is on your pussy.

You gasp, waiting for a breath of fresh air that won't come, not when her fingers move inside you, drawing circles around your clit. She rubs slowly at first, then picks up the pace, until you're moaning her name.

Then she stops.

You open your eyes, and she makes a small circle with her finger. "Turn around for me."

"What?" you ask, still gasping for air.

"You heard me," she says. "On your stomach."

This is officially the day you die.

Hands shaking, you turn over as told, face down on the sheets, ass up toward her. It's disorienting in the most delicious way, not being able to prepare for what's coming next.

Your arms, which you'd been using for balance, are pulled behind your back, one of her hands holding your wrists in place. Her other hand runs along the back of your thigh, close to where you need her but still so far away.

Suddenly her hand is gone, and she doesn't move for a few seconds. You feel her shifting on the mattress and try to peek, twisting your neck — then stop completely, stunned by what you feel. Something big, slowly stretching you around it.

She's going in.

You make a noise that's a moan mixed with a gasp. She continues to push in further, taking her sweet time, until you can feel her thighs against your skin. You feel transcendent with her inside you, like this is what you were made for, like you're full for the first time in your life.

Sam pulls out, and you whimper at the absence. Then she's back in again, faster this time. She does this a couple more times, until you feel something sharp and tingling on your ass.

She's just slapped you.

She's fucking you and slapping you, and all you want is more. You tilt your hips a different way, giving her even more access to your hole. That earns you another slap and a stronger pound, one that makes your hips nearly falter.

"Puta," she whispers with a smile, and your Spanish is good enough that you moan in agreement. Yes, you are a slut for her, and you're not ashamed of it.

Holding your hips in place with her free hand, she thrusts harder, pounding against your g-spot. You moan loudly, every push sending a wave of pleasure through your lower stomach. The strap drags against your walls, and your eyes roll back.

After some time of relentlessly pounding into you, she stops and lets go of your hands. You draw a shaky breath, absolutely spent, thinking she's done, only for her hand to find your clit, rubbing in tandem with a new wave of thrusts.

It feels like paradise, like time has stopped and there's only you, Sam, and her fingers all over you.

And then you have the biggest orgasm of your life.

You know it's coming when you feel the heat pool in your lower stomach and stay there. She's pushing in and out of you. In and out. In and out. On your clit, she's rubbing so fast you can't catch your breath. You feel the walls of your pussy tightening around the strap for a second too long, and you nearly scream.

"Sam!" you cry. "I'm gonna—"

You don't even get to finish your sentence. Your walls loosen, then tighten again, this time without stopping. A flash of heat washes over your entire body, and you're moaning so loud you're grateful her house is the only one around.

She only stops when you do, simply because you don't have the strength to do anything but breathe.

Slowly, she pulls out of you. Your legs ache and you're still panting as you collapse onto the bed, too spent to turn over. Moments later, her hands find your shoulders, massaging the tension from them.

"You were so good," Sam says. "You did so well."

Praise must be your new weak spot, because why does that make you immediately turn around, searching for her face?

She's panting too when you find her, the night proving to be a lot more than either of you planned for.

She smiles — a sweet, shy little thing — and you smile back, tired, achy, and so, so fulfilled.

Now what? you ask yourself. You know you should get up and leave, but that might not be an easy option right now.

"I'll be up in a moment," you tell her, closing your eyes. "I just need five."

Before you can hear her answer, you've already fallen asleep, her smile the last thing on your mind before you do.

You wake up to the gentle clucking of chickens nearby. Sunlight spills into the room, warming you as you slowly open your eyes.

You look to the side, expecting to find your nightstand, only to realise you don't actually have chickens.

You sit up with a jolt as the memories from last night flood back. You've slept for a lot more than five minutes. The wine must be to blame.

After the initial shock, you start noticing little details that make your chest tighten.

You're covered by Sam's sheets, which means at some point during the night she must've helped move you toward the pillows. To your right, neatly folded in a pile, are your clothes. On top of them, a toothbrush.

Your heart aches. You can still remember the feeling of her hands on you, how soft they felt against your skin, and now this? And you're supposed to just get up and leave, never to see her again?

How are you going to manage that?

Just as you're moving to get up — slowly, because your legs are still a little sore — the door opens.

It's Sam, with a plate of eggs and a fork.

When she spots you, she smiles. "Hi. Sleep well?"

She looks so beautiful you nearly forget to reply. She's wearing a white tank top and denim shorts. Her hair is back in place, with those same curls you loved untangling the night before.

Finally, you smile back, then chuckle bashfully. "Yeah, I did— Sam, I'm sorry. I know I said I'd be up, but—"

"It's fine," she cuts in, nodding. Then she shakes the plate gently and walks over to hand it to you. "You should eat something."

You take it, feeling more disconcerted by the minute. You're still naked, still in her bed, and now she's taking care of you.

Her words from the night before echo in your head. One night only. You shouldn't get your hopes up.

But she's not making it easy for you.

There's still so much about her you want to know. So many questions left unanswered. You want to unravel the mystery of her, to understand what makes someone like her live alone in a house up in the hills, away from everything and everyone, yet still show up in a bar so far from home, like she needed to feel something different just as much as you did.

You slept with her. Now you want to know her.

Much to your surprise, she sits on the bed, right next to your clothes. She glances at you a few times while you eat, but mostly her eyes roam around her own bedroom. It looks like she's wrestling with something, some of the clouds back in her gaze.

After a few minutes of silence, broken only by the clink of your fork against the plate, Sam lets out a heavy sigh.

You look at her.

She looks at you.

She raises her shoulders, throwing her arms out to the sides. Then she asks the question.

"Now what?"

"I'm getting… the smell of snow and people," she begins, trying to orient herself. "Lots of people. I'm also getting old-house vibes… an inn? That's it, an inn! Which means this is Itrer! Good, still on the same planet we were on."

She pushes herself upright from the floor (and why was she on the floor in the first place?) and immediately calls out to you.

"You okay? Dunno how I ended up here," she says.

No answer comes.

She pulls herself to her feet in a hurry, nearly falling forward again. She expects to find you sleeping on the bed.

You're not.

She groans, feigning annoyance so she doesn't have to deal with the tinge of worry tightening in her chest.

"You have only one job!" she whines. "Don't wander off! Why is that so hard for humans to follow?"

She makes her way to the shared bathroom at the end of the hallway. Scores of people come and go, passing her by, but she registers every single face. It's a habit: to calculate danger, to gauge who might be sticking out from the rest, to protect those who are under her responsibility.

None of the faces are yours. But it's okay. She refuses to believe you're in danger (yet).

(Yet.)

Arriving at the bathroom door, she knocks rather enthusiastically, hoping you'll be the one to open it.

​You don't. Instead, an older woman with grey hair and an equally grey nightgown fixes her with a stony stare.

​The Doctor scrunches her nose in disappointment. "Nah, sorry. Not you either." She begins to walk away, only to make a sharp turn back to the woman, who is still standing in the doorway. "But maybe you can help me! I'm looking for someone."

​The woman's eyes widen.

​"I mean, this specific person?" she clarifies, gesturing vaguely at the space you usually occupy. "I'm not just browsing."

​The woman blinks in what seems to be a mix of relief and annoyance, so the Doctor presses on.

​"Maybe you saw me yesterday with my mate? They're always right behind me. Well, usually. Right now, they're about two pep talks away from missing person status," she finishes with what she hopes is a reassuring smile.

​"I did see you yesterday," the woman says.

​The Doctor's face lights up. "Oh! Brilliant! And where—"

​"But you were alone," the woman finishes, cutting her off.

​The Doctor frowns. "What? No, but there wasn't a moment I was alone. I don't think— no, I'm sure."

​She looks at the woman again. The stranger is staring back at her now with such a mix of annoyance and confusion that it makes her skin crawl.

​The Doctor manages a tight, polite smile. "Thanks for the help."

She turns on her heel, shoulders squared and hands clenched.

"One pep talk left," she sighs, before marching straight to the lobby, where she'll find her last hope of getting some answers.

Papa Smurf.

She arrives at the lobby, and sure enough, there he is. He's sweeping the floor, looking just as thoroughly unhappy as he did the day you arrived.

"Hi!" she greets him, plastering a smile on her face that is as bright as it is sharp. "Sorry to stop your sweeping, but I came to bear the good news that Gargamel isn't around. You can start lightening up!"

The man stops to look at her, his frown forming dunes across his face.

"Jokes!" she exclaims, throwing her arms out in an effort to break the ice. "Anyway, I don't suppose you remember me—"

"Yeah, I do," he grumbles, resuming his sweeping. "Last one in. Made me wait all that damn time."

The Doctor's smile tightens just a fraction.

"Tattep," he finishes.

"Yes! That's right, Tattep… couple. Me and my…" She trails off, suddenly unsure. She clears her throat. "Spouse," she finally says, with a little too much emphasis on the first 's', as if she's forcing the word out of her mouth. "You'll never believe me, but I think we've missed each other. Did you see them around the inn by any chance?"

The man stops again to stare at her with his dune-like face. "Ma'am, you're not making any sense!"

She arches her eyebrows, muttering to herself, "You're not the first to say that."

"You didn't bring in any spouse, no," he says, shaking his head. "You paid for only one room — and if I find someone here who shouldn't be!"

"No. No, it can't be. I— I remember us leaving the TARDIS, walking all the way here, getting the last room just in time!" she says, recounting the events of the previous day, mostly for her own benefit. Then she turns to him, her eyes hard with sudden seriousness. "There's no way you haven't seen them. Think again! About this height, human, nice eyes, gorgeous face. Only one part of that is important, actually."

He huffs, shaking his head once more. "I told you, ma'am. There was only you, and I'd better not find anybody else."

And with that, he turns away and leaves.

She rolls her eyes but finally — finally — admits to herself that she's in trouble. Big time.

She allows herself to linger in the lobby, watching as people come in and out of the inn, and a familiar feeling sinks its dreadful claws into her chest.

Loneliness.

She's been trying to run away from it her entire life. With you, she's never felt it, not even once. And to think she could have—

The Doctor draws in a sharp intake of breath, her hands flying to her hips out of instinct; her body is running on autopilot to kill that thought before it can go any further.

She walks out of the inn, her mind racing like an engine fuelled by desperation and confusion.

"Okay, don't panic," she says. "That's what I'd say to you. Though, yeah, right now it's mostly to myself. Can't panic, gotta think. First things first: what do we know?"

She starts pacing, gesturing with her hands as she talks. "I know that the last thing we did was watch The Lovers — wild choice of a name, if I can say so — and you asked me something. What was it?

"Ah!" she exclaims after a brief pause. "You asked about the myth. About the whispering to the comets. Which sounds really silly to me, if I'm being completely honest."

(She is not being completely honest.)

"I've been whispering tons of truths to tons of stars and I haven't seen any action. I mean, I have seen— well, you get the gist. But let's suspend our disbelief for a sec and accept that — yes — the comets actually heard whatever it is you whispered. What would it be?!"

She stays like that for a few moments, her mind racing with a dozen different theories as she tries to decipher what you could have possibly asked for. That's when her eyes fall on a scene unfolding in front of her.

It's a mother and her child. They're in the inn's lobby, near the exit, still in the Doctor's line of sight. The child is whining and sniffing, as if gearing up for a full-blown crying fit. They can't be much more than two years old by Itrerian standards, and they look exhausted, likely missing home.

(She knows these things. She used to be a dad.)

The mother suddenly kneels next to the child and whispers something that immediately makes them brighten up. She offers the child a hand, and they walk out of the inn together.

"Home," the Doctor mutters. "That's it! Maybe they wanted to go home, too."

With a new resolve — and a wounded ego, because why would you whisper that to two random comets in the sky rather than to her — she makes her way to the TARDIS.

And as she does so, she tries really hard to ignore the tickling feeling in her bones that suggests something isn't right about time.

She finds her ship right where she'd parked her the day before: at the edge of a cliff, facing the beautiful double sunrise. The sunlight casts shadows across the soft grass where the TARDIS is, providing a brief refuge from the glare above.

She remembers how this was all snow yesterday, and how much you'd complained about having to walk all the way down to the festival, something about your feet going numb because of the cold.

She stops now in front of her ship, staring down the path you'd made together, and her hearts ache within her. She should have—

"Not now, Doctor," she tells herself, abruptly cutting off her own thoughts. "One thing at a time."

As soon as she makes her entrance, the TARDIS whirs in confusion.

"Yeah, I feel it too," she says, replying to a question she wasn't asked. "Trying not to think about that now, though, thanks!"

She makes her way to the console, flipping levers and pressing buttons only she understands (mostly), and the TARDIS complains again.

She's asking the obvious question: "Where are they?"

"I… I don't know," she replies. "If I had to guess? They went home, for some reason."

The ship lets out a soft vworp.

"Now, don't get jealous," she chuckles. "They didn't just take a lift, this is way more cosmic than that." Before her friend can ask again, she waves a hand in the air. "Wish I could tell you all about it, but I have a hunch and I've got to chase it. Sorry."

Her hand rests against the take-off lever for a few seconds, during which the Doctor's hearts twist at the possibility of being wrong, yet beat faster at the thought of seeing you again, at home.

"Wish me luck!" she exclaims, pulling the lever down. The ship whirs in response, taking off.

Not a few minutes later — all of which felt like two eternities and a half for the Time Lord at the wheel — the ship lands.

She checks the monitor. "Earth. 2025. Christmas Eve. Usual parking spot." She smiles up at the TARDIS. "Moment of truth, then. Here we go."

The lights dim softly around her — the ship's way of telling her to go.

Her usual parking spot is a small park a few blocks from your house. You don't like your parents knowing much about your travels — you don't want to explain the alien part of the story — so you prefer to walk home when you do get back.

She obliges, as she usually does when it's you.

Besides, her experience with human parents tells her she should probably trust your instincts. This means she very rarely meets your parents, and when she does, they're usually on their way out or you're already leaving. The brief interactions she's had with both of them, however, led her to dub them Nice Mum (she cooks well and complimented her eyes once, that was really nice!) and Terrible Dad (sometimes she forgets he exists in your life).

She recounts all of this on her way to your house. The building and the neighbourhood around it are just as she remembers.

"Which is good, right?" she mutters to herself, standing in front of your front door. "They're probably here. Probably sleeping. Or eating. Most likely eating. Could be watching the telly, too. I'll just—" she makes a frantic movement with her arms "—walk in, ask them what's up, bring them back to the TARDIS. Then, time will be okay again."

She sighs, watching her breath mist against the cold air. "And I'll be okay again, too."

Before she can dwell on what that means, she pulls her sonic from her pocket and opens your front door.

She doesn't linger on any of the rooms, hurrying upstairs to where your bedroom is. She had hoped to find you in peaceful slumber, zzzing away all the joint pains from walking too much alongside her. At the very least, she thought she'd find your room empty, but exactly as you'd left it.

But — instead of your little trinkets, clothes, and personal things — all she finds is an empty room.

A dusty, web-filled, empty room.

"Okay," she says, her tone as light as she can still manage. "Bad news. Bad news on top of previous bad news."

Just then, two voices echo outside the closed door — a man's and a woman's, apparently complaining about the 'someone's steps they've just heard'.

But the Doctor recognises the owners of those voices before they even open the door.

Your parents.

Nice Mum and Terrible Dad open the door, still bickering amongst themselves, before completely freezing when they lay eyes on her.

She, however, beams at them. "Ah! It's you two. You know what? You have no idea how actually happy I am to see you — even you, Terrible Dad. You're a sight for blind eyes. Or is it sore eyes? Some type of eyes — anyway, I'm distracting myself."

They stare at her, dumbfounded, before Terrible Dad's brain apparently gears up and he furrows his brow.

"Who are you?" he asks, his voice thick with apprehension. "How did you get in here?"

The Doctor nearly stomps her foot at the universe, like a child throwing a tantrum when they don't get what they want.

"Oh, this is getting so much worse! So, you lot, you don't recognise me?"

They look at each other, their confusion giving way to the beginning stages of fear.

"No, no, no, it's okay," she tries to reassure them, but it comes out sounding more panicked than she intended. "I'm your child's mate. Best mate. This room," she waves her arms around, taking a few steps toward them, "this room is theirs. They sleep — or, I mean, they should be sleeping here."

"Ma'am, is this some kind of joke?" Terrible Dad asks, stepping in front of Nice Mum. "There's no one living in this room."

The Doctor knows what that means, but she doesn't accept it. "No. Listen to me, you've got a child."

Nice Mum steps away from your father, wearing a painful expression. But the Doctor pushes through.

"I know, cause I'm their best mate. We travel together, though they wouldn't really want me telling you guys that."

Nice Mum's discomfort tips over into full-blown sadness, and she starts to cry.

Terrible Dad grumbles, his face souring as he turns back to the Doctor. "Bloody hell. Your fault, woman! Look what you've done."

"What?" she asks, her voice dropping, gone all soft and kind. It genuinely pains her to see Nice Mum like this. She takes a small, cautious step closer. "What is it? Has something happened? Has something happened to your child?"

The crying turns into a jagged sob, and Terrible Dad tutts, shaking his head. "Everyone knows we can't have children. Never could."

The Doctor feels her hearts twist — a proper, physical wring that makes her frown in pain. "No. Not this. Not like this. I— you were my last hope."

"I don't know why I'm even telling you this, why I'm still talking to you," he suddenly declares. He's moving into the final stage of a cycle the Doctor knows only too well: first comes confusion, then fear, and finally? Anger.

"I'm calling the police!" he shouts, stomping away from the room and leaving the Doctor standing in the middle of a life that doesn't exist anymore.

"See? That's why I never liked him," she mutters, mostly to herself, before turning back to your mother. Nice Mum still looks shaken by everything that's just happened.

The Doctor walks up to her and carefully places her hands on her shoulders. She looks directly into her eyes, speaking with as much certainty as she can muster: "Don't worry. You do have a child. They are so loved, and so missed. I'm the Doctor, and I promise I'll get them back to you. Somehow."

Then, before she can stop herself, she adds a tiny bit more: "I need it just as much as you."

Your mother actually seems a lot more receptive than the Doctor expected. She doesn't scream or run, just gives her a small, confused smile.

Good, the Doctor thinks. She's back at the first stage of the cycle.

In the distance, she catches Terrible Dad's voice on the phone, actually calling the police about an intruder.

Which, in this case, is her.

Without the TARDIS to hide in, a quick exit is the order of the day. Her eyes roam over the empty room, looking for — and finding — a window just large enough to fit through.

She lets go of Nice Mum's arms, giving her a smile that's half-grimace, half-wince, as she backs away towards the glass. "Gotta dash now, though, sorry! Multiple somethings going on, and getting arrested now would be a bit of a nuisance. Can't wait to eat your cheese lasagna when this is all sorted, though. I'm really craving a cheese lasagna right now."

That's bought her enough time to reach the window. Your mother hasn't made a move to stop her or shout for help, so the Doctor pulls it open and gives her one last, hopeful look.

"See ya on the other side!"

And with that, the Doctor takes a leap to freedom, falling away from your home and into the cold day.

She lands with a flourish and looks up at the window just in time to see your father spotting her. So, she runs. She runs without even being sure why, hoping that if she goes fast enough — if she tries hard enough — then maybe she'll just… run into you.

Her thoughts are cut short when she slams right into a woman, knocking the breath from her chest.

The both of them scramble backwards, muttering apologies at the same time. The woman looks young, in her early twenties. Her eyes are blue, and her hair is a blonde colour quite close to the Doctor's own. A slit in the girl's eyebrow catches the Doctor's attention. She's a rather distinctive-looking individual.

"Oh my God! Sorry," the girl says, laughing awkwardly. "I'm so sorry. I hope you didn't get hurt. I don't know what happened there, but I just— I guess I got distracted by the—" She stops and laughs again. "Nevermind. Are you okay?"

The Doctor, who had been listening up to this point, tries to give the young woman a smile. It comes off as more of a wince again.

"I'm fine! No worries, I— no, actually, I'm not fine!" she suddenly exclaims.

"Oh no," the girl says, covering her mouth with her hand. "I am so—"

"I had this mate I was travelling with, yeah?" the Doctor presses on, her words tumbling out of her mouth. "And then poof. They're gone! I can't find them anywhere! One minute they're right there, next minute… nothing. Not even a footprint!"

The girl laughs again, but it sounds more nervous this time. "Gone? Like— gone because they're ghosting you, or… gone-gone? Disappeared?"

The Doctor doesn't even stop to wonder why a stranger would ask such a specific question. It just fuels her to keep talking. There's something about the young woman that makes her feel at ease.

"Gone-gone-gone," she replies. "Actually gone. And I know I'm going to sound like a lunatic saying this, but I'm the only one who remembers them! Not even their parents—" she points down the street "—remember having them. And I just—"

She stops and starts pacing, screwing her eyes shut until they wrinkle, as if that's going to make her brain work harder. "I feel like I'm missing something. A detail. A tiny, little, massive detail! There's something seriously wrong with time. It feels suspended, frozen. Something is distorting time around my friend specifically."

"Oh!" The girl snaps her fingers, smiling. "Like an alternate timeline!"

"Exactly!"

"Were you there with them when they disappeared?" she asks.

"No. I mean, I think I was, but…" The Doctor lets out a heavy sigh. "When I woke up, they were already gone."

"What if it had something to do with you, then?" the girl asks, just as energetic as the Doctor herself. "Cause that happened to me once, and—" she laughs again "—I don't remember much? But it did involve me doing something I shouldn't have done, and then having to do all these things to find a way to fix it. It happened another time too, but…"

She puffs out a breath of air, looking up at the sky with a sad smile. "I mean… what if that's what happened to you?"

That makes the Doctor pause.

She stays completely still. A thought is right on the tip of her metaphorical tongue, tickling her brain, but it won't quite show itself. She tries to grasp for it, thinking out loud.

"The last time we were together was with the wish-granting comets," she mutters, a sad smile touching her face. "I— I wanted them to see it. Told them all about the myth. Then they whispered something to the comets. But what?" She snaps back into full Doctor mode, her voice sharpening. "And why? Why whisper to a ball of space-ice? Why not just tell me instead?"

The girl gives her an amused, knowing smile.

"What?" the Doctor asks, feeling properly thrown.

"I mean, if them being gone has something to do with you… then what if they whispered something about you?" the girl asks, her voice careful. "Something they thought they couldn't tell you."

That thought tickles the Time Lord's brain again.

"Maybe they wanted you to see something…" the girl continues. "Or… do something? Say something?"

The Doctor gasps. The thought has finally shown itself properly.

"Oh, you are brilliant!" she exclaims, gesturing excitedly. "Can't believe I didn't think of that earlier. I think there's too much going on, my brain's too crowded. Ever since they left, I guess I've just been feeling so—"

"Dormant?" the girl finishes, smiling. "Yeah, I get that. It's like being the only one who remembers… It wears you down."

"Yeah," the Doctor nods, feeling rather bashful about admitting it. "But now I know what to do, and it's all thanks to you. Thank you, you've really helped."

The girl lets out a laugh, one of the sweetest sounds the Doctor's ever heard. "Yeah, course, yeah! Go on then, go find them!"

The Doctor does — and neither of them realises they didn't even stop to ask each other's name.

For the sake of the future, maybe that was for the best.

If the police were indeed looking for a blonde, five-foot-five invader, they'd find her running like the wind, her coat flapping like a wing behind her as she searched for one thing: her TARDIS.

The Doctor bursts inside the ship, tosses her coat over a handrail, and immediately flies to the console.

She types in the coordinates, and the TARDIS lets out a complaining groan.

"You've got to trust me on this one," she says, frantically darting from one side to the other, yanking levers and hitting buttons as if her life depends on it. "I'm so dumb, can you believe how dumb I am? I just had a talk with— ugh, I didn't even ask her name! But I spoke with someone, and I know what's happened now. Which is why I need you to take me there."

The ship makes another puzzled vworp.

"Yeah. You guessed it. We're going back to Itrer."

She slams down the take-off lever, and the ship whirs into life.

If there's one rule about time travel the Doctor actually respects, it's this: never — and she can't stress this enough, never — cross your own timeline. That, and not messing with the fabric of time.

Currently, she's doing both.

Well, messing with the fabric of time wasn't exactly her choice. None of this would've happened if you'd just whispered your whisper to her instead.

But yeah, she's crossing her own timeline now. And she's not sorry.

Parking the TARDIS outside the inn is a struggle. The old girl is actively — and very aggressively — resisting the landing. Temporal feedback loop and all that. Very bad for the paintwork.

She's landed at the exact moment of the day before you disappeared (has it really only been one day since then? Who can tell anymore?). Inside the TARDIS, she's just an observer, watching time pass until it happens.

​Until the Lovers show up.

​Her controls are decidedly messed up because of the interference, but she can still make out her own figure arriving at the inn at the same time she had with you.

​Only this time, she's alone.

​The Doctor watches herself walk up to the innkeeper and head inside the building in total disbelief. She looks like she's running on autopilot. Just a shadow of herself.

​"Dormant," she mutters. "Bet I don't even know why I'm heading there in the first place."

And, with a sinking realisation, she asks out loud, "Is that what I look like when I'm not with you?"

She tries not to think about what that means — even though, right now, she has to. If she wants to bring you back, she needs to remember how to let her hearts beat without trying to choke them dead.

She waits, watching time crawl by, not daring to leave the TARDIS. She can't risk making things worse, not now. She's mapped out a plan. She knows what she has to do.

When the Lovers finally appear in the sky, the Doctor closes her eyes and takes a long, steadying breath.

And she thinks of you.

She remembers your curious eyes, your bright smile, the way you seem to light up whenever you're together.

She remembers your questions, your confusion, and the way you look when you're completely exhausted — usually because of her.

She remembers how you look at her when she's brilliant, like she's the only star in the galaxy.

She remembers the weight of your gaze when she's less than ideal, the disappointment clouding your eyes.

And she misses all of it.

"I'm sorry," she says at last. "I'm sorry I was so stubborn, so blind, that I didn't admit how much you meant to me until you were literally gone. I'm sorry I caused this, and I'm sorry you're not here."

The Doctor opens her eyes and looks at the comets on the scanner, a bitter laugh catching in her throat.

"The truth is, I wanted to say it. I meant to. That was always the intention, through everything I ever did with you.

"But I thought — I hoped — that my intentions would be enough. That you'd see me through this daft old face of mine." She smiles again. "And you did. Of course you did. You were so clever, and so much braver than me. Now you're not here and I— I'm lost.

"Two celestial beings nicked my momentum — still can't quite believe they're actually listening — and they forced me to see it: this reality, this timeline, this universe, without you… isn't the same at all.

"I'm the Doctor. I've watched universes die and be born, I've saved more worlds than I can count from complete destruction, but right now? I don't want to waste my time in a universe you're not in."

She closes her eyes again and whispers the closest she'll ever get to the real truth beating in her hearts.

"I miss you. And I… I need you."

Suddenly, the floor lurches and yanks her out from under her own feet. The TARDIS shudders, violently, as if something is trying to knock her onto her side. Sparks spit from the console, smoke blooming across the room and clawing at the Doctor's throat.

The ship takes flight on her own, centre column hammering up and down in a frantic blur. The Doctor staggers, manages two steps, then the next jolt hurls her back to the floor. For once, she doesn't say a word as the control room becomes a spinning mess of amber, blue, and yellow; shards of console casing skitter past, her mechanic tools clattering in every direction.

And then, cutting through the chaos, comes the sound of reckoning and fate.

The cloister bell.

"No!" she yells, hands clinging to the railing until her knuckles turn white. "What are you doing? This is my only chance of getting them back, not the time for you to throw a fit!"

The bell tolls again, louder, the vibration rattling right through her bones.

And the doors swing wide.

The Doctor's eyes widen as her predicament finally dawns on her. "Oh no. No, no, no, no, no. Not again, not this time!"

The TARDIS pays her no mind. Whatever's driving her is still a fog in the Doctor's head as the ship keeps bucking, throwing her weight toward the open doors.

"Why are you doing this?!" she pleads. "What did I do? I was only—" She stops. "Oh. Wait a minute."

Her hand burns, and she knows she won't be able to hold on much longer. Below, the abyss yawns, gravity calling her name. But she hangs on, because the pieces are finally starting to click into place.

"Of course! When they whispered, the comets froze in the sky for a tiny second before everything blacked out. That was time—" She hauls in a breath, swapping hands on the railing to keep her grip. "Time doing its thing, changing in real time." A grin flashes across her face. "So now, when I whispered to the comets, time is trying to change this timeline and I… I'm the anomaly."

Still reeling from the realisation, she risks a glance at the drop beneath her. "I can't hold on much longer! And maybe…"

She prays to the stars that her theory is right.

And she lets go.

The Doctor's eyes snap open to the decaying paint on the ceiling.

The trouble is, she doesn't remember falling asleep.

The room is dark, the place is quiet, and time feels… right?

She doesn't immediately register why that surprises her. What she does register is the you-shaped human curled up right next to her.

It makes sense, she thinks at first — the room is freezing and you—

She lurches upright with a gasp, memories flooding back all at once: waking up with you gone, chasing you, letting go.

Which means the you-shaped human is you!

"Doctor?" comes your sleepy voice at her side, your hand slipping to rest against her arm as she moves. "Are you okay?"

What she feels in this moment is pure bliss; happiness and relief surge through her veins until she feels almost electrified.

She whispers your name with the brightest grin. "It's you."

You blink a few times, brow furrowing, before sitting up. "Yeah, of course it's me."

Instinctively, her hand comes up to cup your cheek, as if she's afraid you'll vanish like an illusion.

When you don't, a shaky chuckle escapes her. "It's actually you. It worked."

Your gaze drops to her hand, still warm against your skin. "Don't do this," you mutter. "No cheek-touching, unless you're going to kiss me."

Just as instinctively, the Doctor feels the urge to pull back. Drop her hand, roll away, be a source of heat and nothing else.

But now she remembers the void you left in her life. She remembers how much it hurt not having you, and how much she needs you.

Wasn't that what she whispered to the Lovers anyway?

So she doesn't withdraw her hand. Instead, her thumb traces slow circles over your soft skin.

You swallow hard, and suddenly the air between you feels that much heavier.

You say her name, tentative. "Did something happen?"

At that, she grins, something sad and amused all at once. "Ah, mate. You have no idea."

She brings her other hand up to cradle your face. "Just had this dream," she starts, voice calm but urgent, never letting a sentence breathe for long, "about this woman — brilliant stuff, really — who had everything she wanted except the one person she needed most. Not because that person wasn't brilliant, because they were, but because the woman fumbled it so, so badly that the person she liked ended up gone."

She pauses to check your reaction. She recognises that look — the one you get when you're pretty sure she's a bit mad, but you're also starting to follow.

So she goes on. "That dream made me think, you know. Some things only happen once in hundreds and hundreds of years. And when they do, you can't let them go to waste. And I—"

Can't let my love go to waste, she wants to say. But the words won't come.

You nod, encouraging.

"This is all very new to me," she admits.

You chuckle softly. "Don't force words out. I know you, Doctor, they're not gonna come."

"No?" the Doctor asks.

You shake your head. "Just… think of the first thing that crosses your mind. What is it?"

She tilts her chin up, eyebrows arching just slightly. It's never really crossed her mind that it could be this simple — that you'd understand her so quickly, that she could just… do it.

Because right now, the first thing that crosses her mind is just how beautiful you are.

Your cheeks are slightly flushed — whether from her warmth or her proximity, she'll take either — and your skin is hot under her touch. Your eyes dart across her face, trying to read her, glowing with anticipation.

And your lips… They've always been so tempting. It's just the first time she admits it to herself.

And that's why — feeling just as terrified as she was when she took the leap out of the TARDIS — she does the first thing that comes to mind and closes the tiny space between your faces.

And your lips meet.

It's not as graceful as she was aiming for. The bed creaks beneath her, and she has no idea if she's being too soft or too much.

But your mouth fits hers perfectly, and you suck in a sharp breath before kissing her back. You stay like that for a few seconds — seconds the Doctor experiences as years and years of her lives, each one more perfect than the last.

And then, you break apart.

At first, you take another deep breath in, then out. You look surprised and a little shocked, and she studies your every expression as if you were a mystery she needs to become an expert on.

She hopes you enjoyed it just as much as she did.

She hopes you want another one just as much as she does.

As if in answer to her hopes and wishes, your face breaks into a smile — and so does hers. She has no time to quip about how relieved she is to have apparently done it right before you lean in again, cupping her face between your cold hands.

You capture her lips with your own, guiding her into a kiss as beautiful as time itself.

And when your tongues meet, that surge of electricity races through her veins like rays of sunshine. She has you here, in her arms, and the dormant landscape her life became without you feels impossibly far away.

In practice… well, let's start with the fact that you're not even on Earth. You aren't surrounded by celebrations, smiles, and a mountain of food, either. Instead, you're running through crowded streets, bumping into hurried, cranky aliens (who think you're the alien — and they're right!), and trying to keep your eyes open as the cold wind of a snowstorm whips against your face.

Still, you know it's Christmas because you're following her: the Doctor. The one who put you in this mess to begin with.

The one you love.

Of course, she doesn't know that.

"This one!" she suddenly exclaims, pointing at the door of one of the endless motels lining the street. "I'm sure this one has a vacancy. I can feel it! Me brain's tingling."

You fix her with a pointed look, not buying her "tingly intuition" for a second.

"You've said that before," you yell, nearly screaming to make your voice heard over the roar of the crowd and the wind. "Nine times!"

"Okay! Tenth time's the charm!" She throws her arms out, her expression a mix of defensiveness and smugness that only she could pull off.

She knocks emphatically on the door as you take your place next to her, your hands tugging at your drawstrings as you try to warm your ears the best you can.

You wish you could talk more about this planet, but to do that, you would either need to be able to pronounce its name or have the time to actually stop and appreciate it. The busy, cobblestone streets are covered in people and snow, a sight almost reminiscent of home — until you look up. The sky is graced with two suns and five moons, all of them visible at once.

The people are just people, though smaller than your average human. Smaller than the Doctor, for sure.

The door swings open, and an angry-looking man regards the two of you with such intensity that you think he might swing at you if given the chance. He is wearing a light-blue jumpsuit which, paired with his white beard, makes him look like a disgruntled Smurf.

The man scowls. "You the Tattep couple?"

The Doctor's grin falters for a fraction of a second before she doubles down, grinning even wider and bending slightly at the knees. "That's us! How'd you reckon?"

He grumbles at her, "I was closing up already. You nearly missed me, I'm telling you!"

"Right," she says, scrunching her nose before lacing her arm through yours. "Bit of a pickle getting here. Sorry about that."

You're convinced the man wants to roll his eyes, but by some miracle, he doesn't. Instead, he simply walks away from the door, leaving it open, which you take as a sign to follow.

You try to focus on that — following him — and not on the fact that he thinks you're a couple, or on the sensation of her arm linked with yours. Completely unaware of your internal struggle, her hair windswept and her eyes full of light, the Doctor tugs at you and tilts her head.

"Once more unto the breach, then!"

She mercifully lets go of your arm and walks inside. You follow her.

The inn — at least, you assume it's an inn — is a chaotic swarm of people. The common area is packed with chattering locals, and the corridor he leads you through isn't much better. It's as if there are an infinite number of rooms, and every single one is occupied. Finally, at the very end of the hallway, you reach a vacant room.

Yours.

The man tosses a pair of keys at you before making his exit. You thank the heavens he didn't catch her muttered, "Well, thanks for that, at least."

Fitting the key into the lock, you pause and turn to her. "I think we just left two people outside in the snow, didn't we?"

She wrinkles her nose again in a blink-and-you-miss-it moment. "You heard Papa Smurf. He was closing up! They'd be stuck outside anyway, it would be a wasted room!"

Without bothering to wait for you to turn the key, she pulls the sonic from her inner pocket and opens the door with a buzz, hurrying inside like a kid on her way to a playground.

The playground, however, turns out to be slightly disappointing, if the way she halts near the threshold is any indication.

"I won't lie," she begins. "I was expecting more."

She isn't wrong. The room is small — so small you're convinced two people couldn't possibly walk around the bed at the same time. The window is tiny, square, and rusty. The paint on the walls is fading.

And there is only one bed.

"Maybe we should go back to the TARDIS instead," you suggest, trying to hide your desperation behind a layer of feigned disinterest.

"Under this snow?" she asks, the question more rhetorical than anything as her eyes roam the room. "You're not gonna make it, I'm afraid."

"Great, I love being the liability," you mutter under your breath.

"It's not my fault you're human," she replies, not missing a beat.

Suddenly, she sits down on the bed with a plop. She bounces a few more times as if testing the springs. It creaks loudly with her movements, which apparently amuses her.

"Doesn't look like much, but I like it. Seven out of ten." Her eyes settle on you quizzically. "Trying to grow roots, are ya?"

You let out a slightly disconcerted chuckle, taking the chance to turn your back to her to close the door, avoiding her eyes in the process.

It's not like you haven't sat close to each other before. But it's usually on the TARDIS floor helping with repairs, or on some planet's battered ground as you try to escape a murderous alien.

Not on a bed. In a small room. With the door closed.

"I can't sit there," you finally say. "My coat is soggy because of the snow — snow we wouldn't have had to walk through if someone hadn't parked the TARDIS so far away from the festival."

"Oi! I thought you liked the festival!"

You did. The festival was a display of colours and lights — similar to the Northern Lights on Earth but tenfold stronger — along with a dance performance by a local species with small, fluorescent wings. They looked like fairies.

One thing you still don't understand, though, is why you stayed in a private box with her, where it was just the two of you.

"And the food!" she adds triumphantly, as if she knows you liked that part even more than the rest.

And to be honest, you did. What you still don't understand, however, is why you were at a private table, just like the rest of the couples there.

It seems like a pattern, now that you think about it.

After a brief moment of silence, you sigh. "I did. And I still think your parking job needs work."

She vents an indignant sort of sound before pulling something out of one of her many pockets.

"Here, use this," she says, handing you something that looks like a laundry bag. "Some cat nuns gave me that a few centuries ago, never got around to using it. It's got a built-in drying function."

You take it from her, biting back a stubborn smile that insists on breaking your composure for a reason you're not quite familiar with. You place your coat inside the bag and set it on the floor.

Now, you have no choice but to sit down next to her.

Aside from the bed creaking as you try to find a comfortable spot, the act of actually finding said position proves even more annoying. The Doctor has a very characteristic way of sitting — one you're trying really hard not to refer to as manspreading — but that is exactly what she's doing, leaving you very little space to sit without brushing your thigh against her knee.

The alien in question remains blissfully ignorant, her eyes inspecting every inch of the room.

Your own eyes are drawn to her figure. Her back is slightly slouched, her elbows resting against her thighs to propel her forward. Her hair is wavy from the roots — a consequence of the snow — and with the way it reflects the yellow light from above, she almost looks like an angel. The tip of her nose is a bit red, tinged by the cold outside, and yet she emanates warmth, like your own customised, living heating pad.

Suddenly, she turns to you, and her eyes land exactly on yours, locking you in place.

You should look away, you know that. You should avert your gaze, but you can't. You don't want to. Not when her eyes look so golden, so kind. Not when her skin looks so soft and her lips so inviting. Not when you know you're escalating this further than you ever should.

But in your defence, she hasn't looked away either. Her eyes, which are usually as dynamic as the rest of her, dart specifically around your face. Her brow is slightly creased — it wouldn't be her if it weren't — but her eyebrows are just a little arched, as if she's debating something within her mind.

You should look away. She should look away. And yet, neither of you has.

Deep, deep down, a flame ignites inside you, giving you the courage to ask: "Doctor… is there something you want to tell me?"

"Yeah," she says, giving you a tight-lipped smile. "We might have a heating problem."

​She gets up from the bed, and you fall back onto it with a dry, incredulous laugh.

​"These walls are really thin," she says, pressing her ear against the wall facing the bed. "If you're not feeling cold now, thank the sheer number of people Papa Smurf has stuffed in here. Well, and me, of course."

​You lift your head slightly, looking at her quizzically.

​She doesn't even blink when she says, matter-of-factly, "I'm very hot."

​You, however, blink. A few times.

​"You have got to be kidding me."

​"I mean it," she says, one hand on her hip, the other busying itself with a loose strand of hair. She adds, somewhat proudly, "I have far fewer cold-nociceptors, and let me tell ya: it really makes a difference when it comes down to it."

​"I'm going to pretend I understood what that meant," you say. "Anyway, the festival is over. Why are there so many people still here?"

​"They're not here for the festival," she replies, her head nearly glued to the tiny window as she struggles to see outside.

​"Why, then?"

"For the same reason we are!" she finishes, giving you one of her bright grins, one of those that manage to look incredibly excited and incredibly awkward all at once.

It's your favourite grin, by the way.

"I thought we were here because of the festival," you say, sitting up. "What are we here for, then?"

"Ah, you'll see!" She grins wider, throwing her arms out. "We're nearly there. Just—" she pauses to walk with some difficulty back to the window, looks up at the sky, then back at you "—a few more hours."

You squint playfully at her. "What is it?"

"So, round of I Spy?" she asks, her squared, toothy smile returning.

You groan, falling back onto the bed.

"Come on!" she calls. "Pass the time. I'll start!"

You indulge her — as you usually do — by playing this round, then another, and then another, until you've lost count of how many things you've spied and how many more things she can make up in a room so small, just to sound clever.

Throughout the game, something else happens, too. Maybe it's because she's right and the walls are thin; maybe it's because the room is so small anyway. Maybe it's just that you're lucky she's worried about you. Either way, over the course of the rounds, she starts sitting closer. Then closer. Then closer still.

Until, of course, you're sitting side by side on the bed.

You can't do much about it because she's right, there is a warmth emanating from her that is keeping you warm. But if you move, you inevitably intrude on her space, and when she moves (and, God, how much she moves), she definitely invades yours.

When you turn to the side, you can breathe her scent in. When she looks at you, you can see all the shapes the light reflects in her eyes.

And, honestly, you kind of want to die.

Instead, and without really noticing, you fall asleep.

You wake to a very excited, very hyper, and very loud voice in your ear, saying something about it being about to happen.

It's only when you open your eyes that you notice you've fallen asleep — though that isn't the shocking part. Rather, it's where you fell asleep.

Your head is resting against her chest, her arm tucked somewhere behind your back.

You don't have time to feel as mortified as you'd like. She gets up from the bed, pushing you aside with an awkward gentleness, before hurrying to the small window.

"Ah! It's here!" she exclaims, waving you closer. "Come on. You're gonna miss it!"

You let out a deep sigh, trying to regain what little composure you have left. You make your way to where the Doctor is, squeezing your head next to hers so you can see what she's seeing.

At first, you see nothing. Then, two dots of light catch your attention. They are orbiting each other — so closely that it looks as though they're dancing — moving to and fro but always circling one another. They leave a trail of air and light in their wake, transforming the planet's sky into something akin to a painting.

"Told ya!" she says. "They're the reason everyone and their dog is here."

"Doctor…" you say, almost at a loss for words. "They're beautiful. What are they?"

"They're two comets that, every few hundred years, appear in the sky on this side of the galaxy," she explains, her voice tickling your ear. "They're always together, orbiting one another, keeping each other in their own space. Dancing, really. That's what it looks like."

You smile at the stellar pair. Beyond the dancing, their little back-and-forth routine reminds you of her and yourself — always circling, invading each other's spaces, never truly apart.

"And that's why the locals call them The Lovers," she adds, a tiny piece of information that nearly knocks the air out of your lungs.

But she goes on. "According to their legend, if you whisper a truth of love to the comets, the universe will ensure it's heard."

You swallow hard. The comets and their beautiful dance are no longer the focus of your gaze, which lands on any random spot it can find in the distance.

And then, you look at her.

Her eyes are glowing bright, tracking the Lovers as they move back and forth. Her entire face looks relaxed, light, happy. You can't even remember the last time you saw her look this childlike. You might even say there's a thread of something else behind her eyes, a glimpse of… hope? Melancholy? Or perhaps a strange mix of the two.

You don't know what to do with that.

She starts explaining that there's no actual truth-whispering involved, that they're just two comets that, for some reason or another, became gravitationally locked. But truth be told, you're barely paying her any mind. She might be telling you none of that is important, but the same person who took you to a private box, then a private table, then a private bedroom, is the same person who orchestrated everything so that you'd be here to see them.

To see the Lovers.

She's saying with her actions and with her face something else altogether.

If you're taking the hint — and you think, at this point, they're not so much hints as they are highlighted footsteps — why doesn't she just tell you the truth?

When she finishes speaking, your eyes fall back on the pair, now starting to make their way back toward the distant horizons.

"Just a whisper, right?" you ask her.

"Yeah!" she confirms. "So they say— wait, were you listening to anything I just said?"

You close your eyes.

And you whisper to yourself: "I wish she would tell me the truth."