Life carried on.

Times changed abruptly and so did their relationship. He became more careful, whereas she grew carefree. Of course, it was never that simple, but they were both learning how to be their best selves in the presence of the other.

They never spoke of all that had happened before. Were it a healthy choice or not, it was in the past, whereas they were trying to look into the future. They didn't talk about how hard it was to move on, only that they were no longer than the people they had been a while ago.

With his help, Clara was putting herself out there. They were taking on activities so normal to other people, but so strange to them. When they woke up, their bodies were closer than they used to; the alarm would go off and he would kiss the back of her bare shoulder and the nape of her neck and the top of her head. She would turn around and their lips would meet for a single second and they would smile.

On their way to work, they held hands. All the journey from home to campus, their hands were linked and their fingers intertwined. Sometimes, her grip would grow loose but he never dared to let go. One time, he suggested they took the tube; like she was trying to prove herself, she agreed, but the moment they arrived at the subway entrance, the flow of rush hour was too big for her to bear. The look on her eyes was enough for him to understand, not a single word uttered was necessary. She would never be normal, they would only hope she would be normal with him.

The end of term came. Students were pleased to go, but not half as pleased as Clara was. She was eager to put an end to that year and start a brand one, with a different perspective and a different mindset. She was ready to leave all the bad things behind and start a new life with him. In her last class, she said some kind words to her students, encouraging them not to give up and work towards their goal, no matter how small or big, as well as apologizing for any time she lacked in her job as their professor. What did surprise her, however, as the class emptied itself, that same girl who Clara had counseled after the death of her father came up to her and thanked her for everything she had done. The shock on her face was evident, she never expected herself to be that important to someone, even more when the young lady said goodbye with a hug.

She faltered, at first, uncertain that it would bring any good to it. But, then, she realized. She was in no threat, that she had simply become a role model to someone. A superhero, the Doctor would say. So she gave her student a short and awkward hug — and it was enough. The lingering of her body in contact with her remained for a while, and it was uncomfortable; however, it didn't hurt or burned or made it impossible for her to think about anything else. She wouldn't just become an open person, but she believed she was getting better.

Which was enough.

When she met with the Doctor, he instantaneously noticed the grin on her eyes. She told him what had happened and he became just as proud of her, raising her hand and kissing her knuckles with tender lips. They were slowly getting there.

She asked him to officially move in with her. She did it on a warm summer night in a quiet candlelit restaurant in the centre of London. It was unexpected for the both of them; he was talking about something completely random and her mind wandered away and he barely noticed when she interrupted him with a question disguised as an order, "Move in with me."

His eyes broadened at the nature of her question; he could have easily dropped the glass of wine between his fingers. Not that they didn't live together already — most of his belongings were already at her place, he couldn't remember the last time he went to his own apartment — but hearing the official question brought him a feeling he couldn't quite explain. "What…?"

"I mean it," she nodded her head vigorously, "I love you, and I want to spend every minute of my day with you. I want to call you mine and be called yours. You taught me how to be better, you taught me to be myself. Losing you would be losing myself."

"You're not losing me," he promised, "Not now. Not ever."

Clara smiled with sealed lips. "So? What do you say?"

He noticed how kept to herself she became. Hands on her lap teeth digging on her lower lip, legs crossed under the table. She still wore her long sleeved shirts, that barrier between her and the rest of the world was tough to break down — he wondered how she wasn't feeling hot. The Doctor dove inside her eyes, drowning himself in all the fear and apprehension lodged there, because of him.

"Yes, Clara. I'd love to."

It was almost comical the way she let out all the air inside her lungs, the tension departed from her shoulders and she lost her posture entirely. Her anxious lips released a carefree smile and laugh, which he gladly met.

At home, that night, he kissed her for all the times he didn't.

Baths remained her sacred time. Back in the early days of their relationship, she had explained to him how the water made her feel pure and clean and peaceful; he respected her time.

Sometimes, however, he would make her alone time their alone time. He'd walk in to find her naked under the water, hair wet and water drops on her face, her eyes closed. She would play oblivious to hearing him enter, he knew, and he would sit by the edge of the tub and he would place his hands on her back and he would rub the remnants of the day away. Or, other times, he would undress himself as well and step inside the tub, settling on the opposite side of hers. Their legs would touch and mingle and they wouldn't utter a single word.

They were pleased enough to coexist.

His birthday came, for both her eagerness and despair. She had made all sorts of plans to make his day the most special, but she feared she wouldn't meet up to her own expectations.

However, their day went nothing like she had planned.

It all started alright, she woke up with a gentle kiss and a light stroke to his hair. They stayed in bed until noon, amidst cuddles and kisses and a soft conversation about everything and nothing at all. He made her laugh and that laught might have been the greatest gift he could have gotten — he didn't tell her that.

They went out for lunch at his favorite restaurant. Despite their reservation, the place was absolutely crowded, and her expression changed as soon as they stepped in. The Doctor suggested they go somewhere else, insisted even, but she was perseverant they stayed — there was no convincing when she set her mind into something. When the host came to lead them to their table, he held her by her index and middle finger and made the way, making it safe and body blocking everything for her. They reached their destination without any accidents and proceeded to have a normal meal.

Heading back to their home, they each went on about their own business in each other's presence. They were both settled in the couch, him anchored against the cushion while she lied with her head on his hap; she was listening to some podcast, relaxed at the sensation of his fingers running through her hair, and he was doing whatever, midway through the afternoon, when the Doctor announced out of the blue that he had somewhere to be and untabled herself from him.

She was puzzled, especially when he didn't provide any answers to her question about where he was going. Just that he had something extremely important to do. Her frowned expression remained until he walked out of the door.

It was fine, though, she thought to herself. His absence was perfect so she could get on with everything she had planned without him watching over her shoulder.

She went out to the bakery down the block and picked up the cake she had ordered. Red velvet, they had had it for dessert on their first date — perhaps it was way more symbolic than just a matter of flavour. And the cake turned out to be just as aesthetically pleasing.

Clara followed back home, tingles of anticipation running down her body. She set the table and went to the bedroom retrieving a new black dress from her wardrobe. She had bought it the week prior and it might have become the boldest piece of clothing she owned. It was quite simple, with small frill cap sleeves that made way to her neckline and offered a nice view of her cleavage; the skirt landed just above her knees with a frill hemline. With a bit of reluctance, she put it on.

She looked down on herself and sighed loudly. It was a pretty dress, she was sure he was going to like it — probably more than she did. It took her even longer to find the courage to look at herself in the mirror; it was a while until she recognized the image as herself.

The dress suited her perfectly; the drop V neckline was enchanting, her collar bones were sharp and her legs were on display. She felt naked — which shouldn't bother her, because he had seen her naked before, so many times, and it had never troubled either of them. Because it had always happened in innocence, whereas she found herself nearly objectifying her body for him.

But it was alright. It was what she wanted. She wanted to make him happy because his happiness meant her own and she was ready for it. They had been together for so long and it was time they sealed their love, she believed. She just needed to get used to being like that.

The armchair called to her once she was past her initial shock and managed to leave her room. She had no idea when he would be coming home and was ready to wait. At first, once seated, she brought her legs up and crossed them in front of her, only to find out, a few seconds later, how uncomfortable that position made her feel, even if she were all alone. She ended up bringing them down and crossing them; and she began her waiting.

Although she didn't have a watch on her, she saw hours going by. Her mind traveled from thought to thought, some bad, some good, some neither here nor there. She relived happy moments from her childhood, she remembered all the good times she had had with him. She smiled at how good he was to her, she wished her mother was still alive to meet him and see that, in the end, she had found happiness. She dreamed about what would happen that night, she feared what he would think of her afterwards.

She was so distraught she missed the sound and movement of the door opening, only realizing he was home at the sight of his head popping inside. Nothing more. Her eyes widened and she leaned forward, about to stand up and about to say something but unsure of which to do first.

He spoke on her behalf. "Are you calm?"

And she was growing more confused by the second. "Yes, I'm calm—Doctor, what's going on?"

"My birthday gift," he spoke without ceremony.

"What?!" she had nearly given up trying to make sense of him. "But I'm supposed to give you the present, Doctor…!"

"Well, but you haven't done it."

"...Yet."

"You never asked me what I wanted."

"I was trying to surprise you!"

"Then I'll get two birthday presents, kudos to me," the crooked smile never left his face. "Are you ready?"

She simply threw her hands in the air, partly curious about it, partly not giving a damn. He opened the front door with his foot and she never saw it coming.

"Doctor?!"

"Clara, meet Berlioz."

In the palm of his hands was the smallest brown and white Munchkin Kitty, with big bright yellow eyes looking right at hers. Her expression between confusion and a genuine smile, her volition was torn between staying put and reaching out. "Doctor…?"

His smile embraced all its warmth as he approached her. "I was walking past the shelter the other day and something just told me to go inside. And when I saw little Berlioz here, it was love at first sight. And then, I thought of you. I know I should have asked you; ask how you handle touching animals with your haphephobia; but I wanted you to love him as much as I do. Look at him, look at these little ears and paws and whiskers. He's adorable."

She wanted to point out that he was adorable — and he was so happy, wanting nothing more than to share it with her. "I don't know," she uttered with a small voice, "About how I'd deal with a pet, I mean. I've never had one, or even been close to one."

He understood with a nod. "Would you like to hold him?"

"Y-yes."

The Doctor kneeled in front of her and carefully placed the kitty on her lap. He was clumsy, struggling to find balance on her legs, and she simply stared at him for a long time, feeling his claws dug into her. He echoed a faint meow, which was enough to warm her heart.

Simultaneously as he held her by her calves, she placed the tips of her fingers on his fur. "He's so soft," she cried, happy, fighting the urge to let out her cheerful tears. It was his birthday, sure, but she sensed this gift was much more for her than for him.

He nodded, resting his chin between her knees. Looking at her ecstatic face, that was his real gift.

"For some reason, I don't mind touching him," she said, overly proud of herself, and the notion braved her to raise the kitty on her hands and bring him close to her chest. "I guess he brings me no threat."

"Not at all," he smiled, running his fingers alongside her bare skin just like she was petting the cat. She kissed his head and sniffed his smell — she was in love; she just couldn't tell if with the kitty or even more with him. "He's a cat, so he obviously doesn't demand the attention that a dog does. But, still, he requires all the love and a few rubs."

She agreed by rubbing behind his ears and received a murmur from him in return. She was unable to stop smiling. "Did you name him after the French composer?"

He blushed abruptly, suddenly feeling highly embarrassed. "The character from the Aristocats, actually."

And she laughed way more than he expected her to. Still grinning, she leaned forward and found his lips on hers. "Thank you, Doctor."

"For what?" he was confused. "It's my birthday gift."

"Exactly."

Their night was eventful, to say the least, trying to get Berlioz used to his new home. They showed him where to eat, drink, sleep and pee, but the small creature was far more interested in kneading every surface he came across with.

Berlioz tired himself by 9PM, entering a peaceful state of slumber and finally allowing the humans to catch their breaths. Clara dropped herself to their bed, still wearing her black dress, to which he had been completely oblivious the entire evening.

She laughed to herself, once he started undressing. "And here I had an entire evening planned for you."

The Doctor was taken aback by her statement; he dropped what he was doing and joined her in bed. She could no longer establish eye contact, and he settled with brushing his shoulder against hers. "I know, Clara."

"You…" she fumbled for words, looking at his jawline with the corner of her eyes. "You know? You knew?!"

"Yes," he spoke without ceremony. "I saw the dress on the wardrobe and concluded."

"You…" she was as surprised as she was confused. "Why did you prevent it, then? Why didn't you just embrace it?"

He shook his head, pained. "No, Clara. Not like this."

"I… I don't understand."

"You're not supposed to feel obligated to do anything. Not because it's my birthday, not because you love me," he explained carefully.

"But I love you. I just wanted to make you feel good."

"And you did. By being your best self and showing how much you care for me," he tilted his head, realizing she was avoiding to look at him at all costs. "But, Clara, when the day comes, I want it to be peaceful, and beautiful. And I want it to be you, not this persona who feels the need to dress up as someone you're not, because you might feel less beautiful the way you are. That is simply not true."

She fell on her back on the mattress, both in disbelief and pondering over everything he had said. He mimicked her movements, albeit landing on his side and resting his head on his hand. Mesmerizing all the traits he had already memorized — even if she were crossed with him.

"You're beautiful, Clara."

It wasn't a compliment, but a statement. One she didn't thank for, only recognized it. Which she reluctantly did.

"Okay."

She crawled towards him with wide eyes and a fixed stare, her hands locked in front of her. He eyed her suspiciously — he knew that look. It was the look when she was about to do something or confess something or ask him for something that he for certain wouldn't like. It brought him memories of when she broke his favorite mug, or that one time she wanted him to buy Berlioz a very expensive climbing tower for no other reason than it being pretty.

He raised his chin up, the cat on his lap only adding malice to his actions. "Clara."

His voice was dry, his fingers were rigid on Berlioz' furr. She dropped to her knees, in front of him, and started petting him as well, slightly grazing his hand. "Doctor. I'd like to run something by you."

"No matter how much you beg, Clara, I will not put myself through three hours of Les Misérables. No, Les Misérables is already miserable as it is, and then you add it to songs and catchy lyrics and it becomes even worse."

Her eyes somehow became even bigger; she showed her inner lips to tempt him — which he replied coldly to, "I'll have you know that the only kitty that can get anything from me is Berlioz. I'm afraid you've lost your status."

She acted hurt for a moment, but the tenderness of her facial traits was enough indication she wasn't offended. She curved a smile at the both of them; after having Berlioz for a few weeks, she had come to the conclusion that the Doctor and Berlioz were one of the same — they both constantly looked grumpy, when in reality were soft of heart.

"It's not that," she started, at ease, but soon became hesitant. "Actually—my gran is in town. She's staying at my father's, and I've been told to come over for tea tomorrow, and… I was wondering…"

"You were wondering…"

"If maybe… If you'd be interested… What I mean is, I would like you to…"

She was hoping he would make it easier for her, so she wouldn't have to say it herself. He made no effort to.

"Yes, Clara?"

Yes, Clara, just say it. Like pulling off a bandaid. "I want you to come with me."

Although he knew it was coming, he was surprised nonetheless. He felt even worse noticing she was kneeling in front of him, symbolically begging him to, whether consciously or not. He felt bad, because she should never feel the need, nor would he ever ask.

"Come here," he patted the couch in a gesture of his request, which she followed clumsily. She sat by his side and cuddled his torso in the slightest; just enough to hide her face from him. "You sure you want me to come? You haven't seen them in so long, maybe you should just take the time to enjoy your family."

He felt the shift of her head against his torso. "They want to know if I'm happy. And I'm happy, because you make me happy. It's only right that you be there with me."

He agreed without any fuss.

"Besides," she devoted all her attention back to Berlioz. "You're my family, too."

It was a confession so small and simple that it meant everything. They both smiled at it.

She pressed her fingers to the doorbell, standing anxiously in front of her father's house. Her teeth were pressed against the flesh of her inner lips, as her mind pictured the man to greet.

He looked a lot with his brother, from what she remembered. She shivered and discarded the thought instantaneously, disgusted with herself for even going there.

"It's going to be fine, Clara," a voice behind her spoke, sending chills to the back of her neck. Like he knew her so well he had mastered the power to read her mind. Kind of intrusive, if she were asked on a bad day.

"It's going to be awkward," she corrected him, shooting him a glance over her shoulder and, somehow, the simple sight of him was enough to ease her of her fears. She smiled, "It's going to be fine."

The door was opened and revealed a very happy Dave Oswald. He looked so thrilled to see her after what seemed ages, it made her feel like a bad daughter for not making the effort to come over more often. "Clara."

She did her best to match his smile, although stayed put. She knew that didn't help the inelegance she was feeling, but she hadn't made any physical contact with the man in years and she surely wasn't going to start now. "Dad. How are you?"

"Good, good. Come on, come in," he stepped inside, expecting them to follow. Pretending his urge to hug her wasn't speaking louder than him.

They did, as she said, "Dad, this is the Doctor. I told you about him."

The men greeted each other with a shake of hands; Clara left them to get acquainted while she went after her grandmother. She found her in the kitchen, busy and distracted with the stove and pans and Clara leaned against the doorframe, simply watching as the elder woman went on about her business. Feelings of nostalgia and reminiscence consumed her; she smiled, remembering how her young self used to beg her to teach her how to cook or cake — or anything that meant Clara would be just like her.

When finally noticed after a few minutes, the grandmother broadened her smile and walked towards her. That sweet smile that reminded her of home and those kind eyes that spoke of love and cherish. Clara forgot of everything and opened her arms towards the warm embrace of her hug.

"I've missed you," she whispered, burying her face between her greyish hair and shoulder. The hug was strong and pleasant, trying to make up for all the lost time between them.

Steps came from behind them, yet they didn't seem to care. The Doctor felt tender with the scene in front of him. He knew that her gran's unconditional love and affect made her one of the few people Clara was comfortable touching — him and her passed mother being the only other ones. However, her father did not share that realization, even though he did his best to hide the disappointment that she could not bring herself to hug him. The Doctor felt empathetic for the man, because, for almost the entirety of their relationship, he felt the same.

Once pulling apart, Clara took a few steps back and found the Doctor's hand in hers. That simple gesture startled expressions from her relatives, which she ignored. "Gran, this is the Doctor. He's—"

She paused, frowning to herself, for lack of a proper word to introduce him. Her boyfriend was too girlish, her partner was too formal, her sweetheart was too naïve. In her silence, she searched the depths of her feelings for him and—

"He's the love of my life."

For a moment, they simply stared at them with utter shock, but once past the initial surprise, they welcomed him as family.

The room was dark, only the dim light from the outside city coming from the window as the only source of illumination. It was dark, yet they could see everything.

Clara was high with her knees stranding on the mattress. Compared to his stall standing figure, it didn't make much of a difference, but it gave her a few extra inches of leverage. With steady hands, she unbuttoned his shirt, revealing his bare chest in its fullness.

She was in charge; neither of them argued with that. Neither had them discussed that, they just knew she had to grasp every sense of control. So, she pulled the sleeves alongside his arms and threw the shirt to the floor.

She pushed herself up and caught his lips on hers, her palms pressing dearly to his cheeks. His hands, meanwhile, rested at the base of her spine, bringing her closer to him. For a long time, they stayed like that.

With a soft pull of his physique, Clara encouraged him to fall on the bed, where he sat and she fell on his lap, legs spread and knees digging into the mattress. She was smiling, mesmerizing every single one of his features — like he was enchanted by him; like she was afraid one day she would forget. Lovingly. She ran her thumbs along the lines of his face, before finally slipping her hands under the long dress she wore and pulled it up her head.

Their faces were met together when he laid her on her back, and he waited for her consent, for her smiling eyes to assent — and when she did, he joined her.

They became one only. Any unpleasantness or awkwardness faded away into the pleasure of being complete, of being one only. For the time being, they shared one heart, one should, and it was all they had been searching for their entire lives.