Chapter Text
The library was quiet, save for the slow hum of the TARDIS and the soft rustle of pages turning. The Doctor sat in his chair, legs crossed, a book balanced in his hands. But his gaze wasn’t moving across the text. His fingers rested on the open pages, motionless.
He wasn’t reading.
He was waiting.
He heard her footsteps before she entered. Tegan always walked like she had somewhere to be—even when she didn’t.
"Couldn’t sleep?" he asked, voice smooth but distant.
"What gave it away?" she muttered, arms crossed as she stood near the bookshelves.
He looked up. She was studying the rows of books, fingers trailing idly over the spines. His lips quirked. "Your footsteps are louder than your arguments."
She shot him a glare, but it was half-hearted. Tonight, she wasn’t in the mood to fight.
Tonight, something was different.
She moved deeper into the library, her fingers hesitating now and then, her attention not really on the books in front of her. She wasn’t here for the stories.
Neither was he.
Then it happened.
She reached for a book.
So did he.
Fingertips brushed..
The moment should have passed. It should have been nothing.
But it wasn’t.
Her breath caught. His fingers didn’t move away.
She looked up.
And found his eyes locked on hers.
Not a glance. Not a fleeting look.
A stare. A pause. A hesitation stretched too long to be casual.
The air shifted, thickened.
She saw it happen—the way his lips parted slightly, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed. The way his grip on the book tightened, as if bracing himself.
He didn’t let go.
Neither did she.
She should say something, anything, to break the moment. But she didn’t.
She couldn’t.
Because he was looking at her like that.
Like something had snapped inside him.
Her pulse hammered against her ribs.
"Doctor?" It came out softer than she meant it to.
He exhaled—a slow, measured breath that did nothing to hide the tension stiffening his shoulders.
He didn’t answer.
Instead, he moved.
Suddenly, her back met the bookshelves.
A gasp escaped her lips as books tumbled from their places, hitting the floor with soft thuds. But she barely registered the sound.
Because he was there.
Right there.
His hands were on either side of her head, braced against the wood. His body hovered inches from hers, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him, close enough that she caught the faint scent of tea and old paper and something unmistakably him.
She stared at him, her breath unsteady.
He stared back.
His pupils were wide, dark, drowning the hazel in his irises. His jaw was clenched so tightly it looked like he was fighting something in himself.
And she could see the exact moment he lost.
"Tell me to stop," he murmured.
His voice was lower, rougher, like he was barely holding himself together.
Her stomach tightened.
Her fingers curled into the fabric of his coat, the only thing keeping her hands from shaking.
He was giving her an out.
She wasn’t going to take it.
She yanked him down.
"Not a chance," she breathed.
And then their mouths crashed together.
His lips were warm—hotter than she expected, hungrier than she expected.
A choked noise escaped his throat—something between a sigh and a groan—before his hands left the bookshelf and found her.
Tegan barely had time to react before his fingers gripped her waist, tugging her against him, pressing their bodies flush.
The bookshelves rattled behind her.
His hands tightened at her thighs, gripping her so hard she was sure she’d feel it later.
The bookshelf creaked beneath the weight of them.
Their breathing turned into something shaky and lost.
She pulled him closer, her lips brushing his ear, voice nearly a gasp.
"Don’t stop."
And he didn’t.