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He takes her dancing, she’s in purple, he’s in white; top hat precariously balanced atop his head. He colour coordinates with a purple bow-tie. He buys her a corsage, it’s a venus fly trap variant, leafy and bright but with teeth and a fearsome bite. She loves it.
He takes her to a high school reunion in 1962. It's all glitter balls, balloons and music from the fifties. She spikes the punch, he pretends not to notice.
They dance too closely, her head resting on his shoulder, stray coils of hair sticking to his jacket. The chaperones tutt and try to separate them, he convinces her that dropping them off at Dendamine in the middle of the monsoon season is perhaps a little extreme.
He holds up the peace sign behind her head during their official photo, temporarily giving her ears, and smiles. She catches him and makes him pay later, putting his fingers to good use amongst crumpled sheets.
There is no disaster.
Nobody to save.
No impending doom.
He drops her off at Stormcage, neither of them want to say goodby.
Years later, when she is gone and the night is but a distant memory, he rescues his jacket from the wardrobe.
He plucks the strands of hair from the jacket and with great care, on by one, places them between the pages of a detective novel he once found in his pocket.
He takes it to the TARDIS library, placing it with care and reverence next to his copy of the Time Traveler’s Wife.
He tries, and fails, to forget about it.