Rose is eleven years, two months, and twenty-eight days old when she has her first kiss.

The kiss is commemorated forever in her diary in a bright-pink scrawl. Kissed Mickey today, the entry reads. After break, beneath the stands. It was nice. Sort of wet. Might do it again. She punctuates the entry with a series of glittery flower stickers, slapping several on the diary's binding, another next to Mickey's name.

(She adds a heart next to it–that's what kisses mean, right? Hearts and love and gooey-fluttering feelings in your tummy? Either way, the stickers and the heart all feel very official. First kiss, check.)

Rose nods in satisfaction.

Rose is sixteen years, two months, and twelve days old when she has her (second) first kiss.

Jimmy kissed me today! she writes in her diary–it's a little faded now, fraying at the edges and underneath the stickers where their corners peel and yellow, but it's still got empty pages for writing-in. Thot he was still w Hayley but he said nah its all sorted. Wants me to go see his band play down the pub tomorrow n said maybe hell come w me to winter formal! I cant believe it everythings coming up Rose (ha) .

She doesn't have any stickers to seal her sentiment this time (she's too old and worldly for that sort of thing now anyway, isn't she?) so instead she sneaks her mum's very best lipstick and plants a luscious kiss next to the entry in a shade as brilliantly scarlet as her name. She pulls back with a grin, surveying her handiwork. It all feels very adult, doesn't it? Much more grown-up than cartoon-flowers and glitter.

Rose picks up a gel pen and scribbles a series of Mrs. Rose Stone variants on a half-dozen pages.

Rose is sixteen years, seven months, and nine days old when Jimmy Stone breaks her heart.

(She is sixteen years, seven months, and ten days old when she leaves him.)

Rose has lost track of her age by the time she has her first kiss.

Oh, she's sure she's in her early twenties, give or take a few months, and she's also sure the Doctor could track it for her, if she asked–could probably tick off the digits down to the millisecond, counting off the minutes that had passed since "Run". She's equally sure that she doesn't care, because the Doctor just emerged from their room in the palace wearing a curve-hugging maroon suit. No, wait; she's wearing a curve-hugging maroon Suit. It definitely deserves that capital S.

And if Rose didn't know any better, she'd think those were heels.

"Now remember," says the Doctor, taking Rose by the elbow as she whispers in her ear, her voice low and velvety-soft as it sends shivers caressing down Rose's spine, "I'm just Clara, here. Clara Oswald. No mention of the Doctor. Got it?"

"Sure thing, Doctor," Rose murmurs.

The Doctor arches an amused eyebrow at her. "You know, it would really help to sell the whole 'married' thing if you at least devoted a tiny bit of effort to remembering my alias," she says with a wry grin.

Rose nods, fully aware that these words are passing in one ear and out the other, because has the Doctor's noise always been so cute and pointed like that? What about her dimples–did that always happen when she smiled? Did her fringe always fall into her eyes just so? Were her eyelashes always so lush? How much neck is exposed by those undone-buttons and that loose tie? And just how perfect would those flowerbud-firm lips feel beneath Rose's?

(The answers, Rose knows, are yes, yes, yes, yes, a lot, and bloody magnificent–they're the same answers she always comes up with, even if she hasn't technically got any proof for that last one. Not yet, anyway.)

"Everything all right here?" asks a passing guard and, panicking, Rose pushes the Doctor up against the wall behind her.

"Wha–" the Doctor tries to say, but her voice is muffled by Rose's lips pressing against hers. The kiss is over almost as soon as it begins, Rose pulling back with wide eyes.

(Yup–bloody magnificent.)

The Doctor stares back at her, mouth hanging open in surprise. Rose tries to force herself to speak–if they're going to be married, then kissing's just part of the gig, isn't it? It's all for the sake of staying in-character, right?–but then it's like gravity has taken over and the two of them collide, hands in each other's hair, hips pulled flush with hips, mouths pressed together and moving with soft, wet deliberation. It could still almost be part of the act but then oh, that's a delightful hum building in the Doctor's throat, a hum Rose feels rather than hears with their chests pressed together the way they are, and oh, that's the Doctor's tongue in her mouth, isn't it? And suddenly Rose has gone a bit jellylike in the knees.

The guard behind them coughs and they part with a loud smack.

"Sorry, didn't see you there!" Rose squeaks, her voice just a little too high and words just a little too rushed. "We were just having a quick peck–"

"Like the married people do," the Doctor quickly supplies.

"–and we just–we didn't hear you," Rose finishes lamely, her cheeks burning fire-red. "But yeah, everything's all right, everything's perfectly fine."

She shoots the Doctor a worried look despite herself. "Right, Doc–Clara?"

The Doctor smiles. "Yeah," she says gently, her smile gone soft and eyes tender. "Everything's brilliant."

The two of them can't tear their eyes away, just grinning at each other like idiots, and Rose is dimly aware of the guard passing by, muttering something derisive about all these damn newlyweds under his breath.

(Rose lost her diary when she was seventeen years, four months, and nineteen days old, but if she still had it, today's entry would go something like this:

Kissed the Doctor. Bloody magnificent. Definitely going to do it again.)