A/N: It's been a while since I've written any sort of story, so my apologies for any bad grammar or construction. This idea popped into my head, and I thought I would explore it. Hopefully it's not too OOC. Reviews and constructive crticism are welcome. Enjoy!

It doesn't take her long to understand this is how it works; how he works. She realizes it on her birthday, of all days. She stands there, after a full day of being at School, with the children (they've been especially awful lately), and remembers it all; Danny being very sweet, buying her a cake, trying too hard and being too awkward. She cares for him, she really does, and they're both trying. He wants to take her out for a date, but she remembers she has dinner plans with her dad so she says not tonight. "Well, I could come along too, yeah?" he smiles, but falters a moment later when she doesn't reply right away. She considers this, has considered introducing Dany to her Dad, but she's not ready yet; she's not ready to make him a permanent thing in her life, and he must've realized this too because he looks down at the floor and says, "It's okay. I overreached." He sighs and walks past her, his smile fading. She tries calling after him, but he doesn't turn around. She stands in the teacher's lounge, alone with her cake, and she can't believe this is happening.

The rest of the day goes by uneventful. Except her dad phones her and says Happy Birthday Darling, and he's sorry but he won't be able to make it tonight because Linda got sick and he needs to take care of her; they'll reschedule and make up for it, he promises.

Definitely not going great, she thinks.

So she comes back to her place, wanting to get a nice shower, read a nice book with a big glass of wine by her side and forget today ever happened. She sighs as she enters her apartment, leaning against the door, eyes closed.

She knows he's there before he even says a word (it's become a habit of hers, trying to guess when he'll be visiting, or guessing whether if he's already there when she gets home. She's become quite good at it too, to be honest).

"Long day?" he asks.

"You could say that." She knows there's something else he wants to tell her; she can see his eagerness as he moves around her living room, in front of the Tardis, almost at her side. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but he holds back.

"Fancy some drinks by the 5th moon of Ashtn?"

And sure enough, she smiles, because why not. It doesn't really matter that he hasn't realized what day it is today – she's happy enough that he remembers to come back for her at all. And above all she wants to forget today's event, to run and laugh and not worry and feel the adrenaline coursing through her veins whenever they're being chased after some creature or other.

"Let's go."

It happens so – they have a few drinks, laugh, dance a little, and she lets herself relax in his arms, her playful smile making an appearance. She knows there's only so much they can allow themselves to enjoy, but tonight she thinks they can relish in their giddiness. She can feel his eyes boring into her face as they dance a slow piece, her head resting against his right arm. Maybe she doesn't want him to look at her face, at her hopeful eyes, at her trustfulness. Or maybe she can't bear to look into his face right now - she knows she'll be gone if she catches his eyes; she can't say no to those eyes.

Never trust a hug. It's just a way to hide your face. It's funny now that she thinks about it.

They keep dancing, comfortable in each other's embrace, and she has the most perfect view of the stars outside, glowing and painting the sky with their radiant light, just the right amount of shine to make her curious about the burning suns and planets behind the spark. She sighs and inhales his scent – so distinctly Doctor, that smell that makes him unique and reminds her of space and the woods and smoke, and oddly enough the Tardis, all at once. She couldn't ask for a better evening, she decides, and she tries to enjoy the moment which she knows won't last forever.

They end up on a balcony side by side, contemplating the colors and swirls and shapes the constellations offer them. She loves watching the stars, the combination of planets and suns and moons, to make this giant live painting mixed with purple, orange, blue, yellow and all the colors in between; that particular glow that can make her smile anytime, anywhere.

"It's beautiful," she's said it before (she's sure she'll say it again), she can't help but be awed by the phenomenon displayed in front of her.

"It is," he replies. Except he's not looking ahead she notices.

She sighs and smiles; closes the gap between them, snakes her left arm around his right and rests her cheek against his arm. She can feel everything that is him, can smell the universe around them, can feel his breathing; and if she focuses enough, she can hear both his heart beats.

"Thank you," it's a whisper; she doesn't know what she's thanking him for exactly, but mostly she's grateful for this evening: he has accomplished to make her relax and enjoy her time, has managed to give her this beautiful moment, shared just by the two of them in his specific place; a quiet moment shared in silence, like a secret only they're allowed to know.

He smiles and leans a little bit closer to her in response.

They don't speak much after. Clara's glad she could finally enjoy her evening, has forgotten everything disastrous that happened during the day; she considers this is how being happy feels. She smiles knowing she could spend hours, days, weeks, and it would still be the same day back home. They can afford time right now, however borrowed; she thinks they deserve that at least, and allows herself to delve, appreciating every single moment.

Moment pass; minutes – hours for all she knows. There's content in them both, and she can feel him loosening up too. It's not too often she experiences this – experiences him in this way – and considers this to be the greatest gift of all. He leans his head over hers as he sighs. There's something different about tonight, she decides. She doesn't want to let go.

They never speak of such things, never say it out loud. But she knows.

"Clara, my Clara" he starts. There's something hiding in that statement (it's not like he hasn't said those words before, but this time feels different, she thinks). "Clara, I—" he cuts himself short; she feels him stiffen once again, his body straightening and his resolution coming back; a wall between them, subconscious or not, but a wall just the same.

The moment's gone she realizes.

So he detaches himself from her, albeit reluctantly. He stares down at his shoes, hands in his pockets, and she thinks he looks like something odd, a rare expression on his face; is he trying to hide? She wonders if this is how he looks like when he's shy.

A small smile appears on his lips, his face the last thing that changes to his usual self. That mischievous smile of his, a soft chuckle, and his unyielding stare. He looks up at her suddenly, and she doesn't know what to expect.

"Clara, we should go back," she thinks she hears regret in his voice but doesn't want to wander any longer in that thought. He's right though; they should go back. She's got markings to do, assignments to prepare.

They walk back to the Tardis in silence. She can't really make out whether he's angry at her, or whether he's just grown bored. He's hard to read right now. A few steps before entering the Tardis though, he stops, turns halfway around, takes her hand in his and smiles, offering her a comforting glance as he leads her inside. She smiles back; this is his way of showing her what he means.

They're back in her apartment in no time; a bit rushed in her opinion, but she's happy nonetheless. Tonight's been worth every other disaster that happened earlier. They don't talk though, but she thanks him again for the evening, and again he can't look at her in the eyes. So unlike him.

She's about to step out of the Tardis when he grabs her wrist, gently tugs her to turn around. She does, and finds a small bouquet of flowers right in front of her, red and yellow and pink, small enough that she thinks it's the most intimate thing he's ever done for her.

"Happy birthday, Clara Oswald." He looks her in the eye this time, intense and deep and open, and again, something new she can't quite place. His voice is deep and raw, and something stirs within her. She's moved beyond words by this simple yet heart-rending gesture; she can't speak as his hand moves to her face, her cheek, and tucks away one of her hair strands behind her ear. He smiles again, this time simple and modest, unpretentious.

It takes her by surprise and she can't move. She wants to say something to him, thank him once again maybe, show him how much this means to her, how everything about tonight has been the most perfect evening, but instead she blurts, "I thought you'd forgotten."

"I could never forget." His smile intensifies, but just as quickly he looks down again and backs away into his console room. He interrupts her before she can say another word. "Off you go then, have some rest. It's a school night after all."

"Yeah," she turns around, and walks out of the Tardis into her living room, a bit disappointed when she hears the Whoosh-Whoosh as the blue box disappears behind her.

Her smile falters, but as she looks down at her flowers she knows this is how he works.

They never speak of such things, never say it out loud. But she knows.