There's ice cream running down her hand; Rose tilts her head and licks clean the trail, and the Doctor's eyes dart away (just like her tongue darts across her skin, pink and delicate and sweeping down her wrist). With his gaze set carefully on the man sitting behind her, he offers a wad of paper napkins, and he hears her mutter "thanks" and take them. Their fingers brush, a second's contact, but it's torture feeling the rough whirls of her fingerprints and the friction they cause against his thumb.
He really shouldn't have taken her to the beach. That was a disaster, he can acknowledge, waiting to happen.
'Are you sure you don't want a 99?' Rose asks, and he lets his eyes drift back. She has the beginning of a sunburn showing on her cheek and forehead, on her forearms and her shoulders. The strap of her dress has slipped off, hanging loosely down her arm; it reveals a strip of pale skin for a moment, before Rose puts it back in place. 'Doctor?'
He starts at his name, or, at least, as much as he ever does – he blinks and raises an eyebrow. 'Nah,' he shakes his head. 'Don't want to ruin my supper.' He slaps a hand on his stomach, and she giggles at the hollow sound it makes.
Rose finishes her ice cream, discarding the cone with a shrug. She stands, the white linen of her dress fluttering around her knees; she smooths it down and then offers him her hand. It's sticky, still, covered in sugar and dried saliva, but he doesn't care. His fingers entwine with hers, interlocking and secure, and together they walk along the pier.
They buy two cartons of chips at a cafe, and he watches as she orders: she leans across the counter, leans up with one leg bent, her sandal slipping off her foot; her mouth curves innocently as she flirts with the boy taking her rumpled pound notes. He's flustered and nervous, and the Doctor feels jealousy and empathy raging in his chest.
Outside, they turn their backs to the setting sun (outrageously, obnoxiously beautiful; pink and gold and fiery red; purple clouds floating sullenly across the sky) and watch people as they pass. There are families on holiday, brightly dressed and lobster red. The wind carries their exasperated voices, the tired complaints of children; the Doctor grimaces and eats another chip. There are men and women, alone, solitary – they walk faster than the families, as if trying to escape the loneliness; it trails behind them.
There are couples, too, the ones who linger. Who hold hands and bump shoulders. They laugh at personal jokes with their whole bodies, heads thrown back and noses scrunching in delight. Each pair, he thinks, is an entire world unto themselves, undiscoverable by others. Off the map, untouchable, even with a TARDIS.
The light is fading, and so is Rose: she is sleepy and content. She's put aside her rubbish, has wiped her hands on her lovely dress, leaving grease marks on the white material; she is careless and gauche in all the best ways, without the pretensions that make his teeth hurt.
Rose leans in close, and he can smell her: briny and astringent from the waves, and the heavy scent of zinc oxide from her poorly applied sunscreen. Her hair is bundled on her head, a tangled mass she'll worry later with a comb, hiding behind a wet curtain as she sits on the jump seat and keeps him company. A curl brushes his cheek and he can feel the dry texture, turned rough by sea water.
The Doctor has learnt, in his time, more myths and stories than he can count. He recalls, in sudden, vivid detail, the ones of sirens, mermaids, nymphs. Of men being led astray, out to open waters, on to rocks to crash and drown. He swallows.
'Thank you. For today, I mean,' Rose says, angling her face so she can see him. Everything about her is so soft: her mouth, tipping upwards, lazily; her eyes, half-lidded, honey brown; even her breath, the quiet sounds she makes as she exhales, the air warm and glancing along his neck.
She's waiting, he realises, for him to kiss her, and it shocks him. Thrills him. Terrifies him, because he can't remember what events led to this – her licking her lips and watching his mouth. In his chest, his hearts hammer, and his body thinks he's in danger: adrenaline spins through his blood, and he feels a wave of dizziness that doesn't help, not at all. He wants to kiss her, too, but it's been such an abstract want – an intellectual exercise that was far from scholarly. He feels frozen in place, suspended, by all the reasons he can't (and all the ways he desperately needs to).
Rose seems unaffected by his internal conflict, and later he will thank her (again, and again, and again); her hand snakes around his neck and draws him down. The Doctor notes, idly, that her fingers feel wonderful when they are running through his hair, and then his mouth meets hers. She's bold: her lips are parted already, sliding over his; it's like she's three steps ahead, and so he hurriedly catches up, pressing closer, dragging his tongue along her lip, tasting the sweetness of her ice cream and the salt from chips, feeling the exciting friction of chapped skin.
His head is buzzing, whirling with nervousness at touching her – his fingers are lightly resting on her throat, over her sluggish pulse that he knows is fast for her. Rose breaks away, slowly, and his breath catches in fear of having done something wrong. She dispels it with the shaky smile, the way her eyes are glazed and unfocused. Her nose wrinkles in pleasure and when he kisses her again she makes a muffled sound, a smothered laugh that makes him chuckle, too.