Author's Note: The fourth and last part of "The Art of Making Love, One Sentence at a Time," series. Probably my least favorite part but I'd be interested to see what you lovely readers think. One drabble, one sentence.

Rory knows that there really isn't such a thing as a perfect moment but he thinks that right here, right now, is the closest he'll ever get to sheer perfection, with his chest lying on the Doctor's chest, being lulled to sleep by the double boomboom of his two hearts beating, one after the other and eventually, his eyes slip closed, unable to stay open any longer even though his mind is still racing with so many thoughts and emotions like oh my God, that just happened and what will I tell Amy? and what should I say now? but when the Doctor's long fingers start gently stroking the base of his neck, Rory just sighs deeply and drapes one arm over the Doctor's thin waist, letting himself relax because he knows that too soon, they'll be fighting aliens again and running and time traveling and running some more and in this moment, for the first time in months, with the Doctor's gentle breathing and his heartbeat times two, Rory Williams feels certain that this is the closest that he will ever get to pure and utter perfection.