Author's Notes:
Doctor Who and all its characters belong to the BBC.

He does not bring her flowers or chocolates, or jewelry. He is not the type to pen sonnets, and she would laugh herself sick if he picked up a guitar. But he gives her half of his salami, a pair of Andy Pandy overalls, and most of a typewriter he found in the bombed-out ruins of a 1940s London office.

And he gives her the universe.

He gives her worlds where the air smells like vanilla and tall purple trees sing at nightfall. A picnic in space, the TARDIS doors open to watch a star supernova and explode into spectra she never knew existed. He gives her the wind in her hair and the pounding of her heart as they run and run across alien soil with no plans to ever stop, hand in hand.

He leads her out of the TARDIS as though he’s gift-wrapped every star.

He makes her toasted tomato and cheese sandwiches like he’s discovering another world.

It’s the strangest courtship Sarah Jane Smith has ever undergone.

And the best.