He had been saving this particular trip for a very special occasion.
Rose practically bounced up and down in excitement as the Doctor pulled levers and pressed switches.
"C'mon," she pleaded. "Tell me where we're going. Give me a hint - just a teeny-tiny little one." But he only shook his head as the TARDIS engines wheezed to life.
"It's a birthday surprise," he said. "I can't spoil it. Those are the rules. I don't make 'em, I just follow 'em."
Rose huffed and folded her arms, but the Doctor could detect a hint of a smile on her lips just waiting to break through.
"Since when do you follow rules, Mr. I-Can't-Fix-The-Oven-Because-I-Threw-Away-The-Manual," she retorted, sticking her tongue out at him.
"Hey! Are you implying that the Great Christmas Cookie Disaster was MY fault, Miss It'll-All-Be-Fine-If-We-Turn-The-Heat-Up-Higher?" he asked, pulling a lever with great gusto and causing the control room to tilt sharply.
Rose, thrown off balance, crashed into the Doctor's side, sending them both sprawling on the floor. The smell of her hair was so enticing that the Doctor was heavily tempted to just stay there, Rose clasped in his arms, on the floor of the TARDIS control room forever. But instead the Doctor stood up, running once again through the well-worn list of reasons why he cannot ever be in a romantic relationship with her.
"C'mon," he said, holding out his hand. "We've landed. Your birthday gift awaits."
All her excitement restored, Rose smiled up at him, her tongue just barely touching the corner of her smile in that way she had that made the Doctor want to kiss her more than ever. It took some serious willpower for him to remember the list just then.
He covered her eyes as he lead her outside, waiting until the TARDIS doors closed behind them to let her see. She bit back a nervous giggle, took a deep breath, and opened her eyes wide.
"Oh," she sighed. They were standing in a field washed with the golden-pink fire of the three setting suns above them. Dotted in the field were graceful, stately trees, not unlike weeping willows back on Earth. Their long, slender leaves fluttered as if in a light breeze, though the air was perfectly still. All around them was a faint scent of flowers. It was utterly still and peaceful, as if the whole planet was holding its breath as the suns set.
"It's lovely," Rose exhaled, as if speaking too loudly would break some magic spell.
"Different cultures have different names for this planet," he told her, his tone as soft as hers had been. "Some call it Nostalgia, Heartbreak, or Feydream, but my favorite name for it is Love."
He half-held his breath, waiting for her reaction, part of him hoping she would see the significance of him bringing her to a planet called Love, parting of him (the sensible part) praying she wouldn't. But she simply hugged him tightly, giving him no more answers than he had had before.
"So the trees," she started when she pulled away from him to gaze at the scenery once more. "Why are they whispering?"
"They're memory trees," he replied, pushing away the regret he felt at not telling Rose how he really felt about her. "People come here and tell the trees about their lovers, their heartbreaks and their joys. The trees are full of memories of unconfessed love, tales of happiness and stories of sorrow."
"Have you ever confessed anything to the trees here?" she asked.
He hesitated just a bit before answering.
"No," he said.
Rose just held his hand as they stood together in silence, watching the three suns drop one by one off the edge of the horizon of the planet called Love. The whole world was sleeping, but as the Doctor looked at Rose he could have sworn that the suns were still shining.
"I love you," he said softly in Gallifreyan, the musical syllables falling involuntarily from his lips as he gazed at his pink and yellow companion.
"Hmm?" Rose inquired.
The Doctor just smiled sadly, thinking yet again of his list.
'Can I be close to you?' he wanted to ask, but the syllables wouldn't - or couldn't - form.
"Happy birthday, Rose Tyler," he said instead, and if she detected an undercurrent of regret in the short phrase, she never said.