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A small fire roars in the hearth, throwing affectionate heat and shifting shadows across the dimly lit room. Whenever a log pops or a stick shifts in the flames, both Rose and Clara spring to attention, throwing furtive glances first at each other and then at the door before eventually realizing that they were once again fooled by the fire.
The Doctor carries most of the blame for the tension. He did, after all, talk a big game about how this 18th century inn is "definitely haunted" before shoving his two companions out of the TARDIS door with a wink and a nudge and leaving them behind. Despite his influence, however, the rest of the tension is entirely born from the unknown and unfamiliar territory that now exists between the pair.
Rose and Clara kissed a handful of nights ago -- a soft and desperate scramble of lips on lips and hands sliding over layers upon layers of fabric -- but they have yet to speak to each other on the matter.
For all the courage and intelligence that is split between them, in the face of love, they are a pair of fools.
Clara fears rejection. Rose fears the consequences of an unrequited crush. Both worry that when placed next to the life that they share with the Doctor -- the heart-pounding, brilliant dance across the universe -- whatever bond exists between them must pale in comparison. Surely, they both think, she must be more in love with the Doctor and the TARDIS than with me.
They are, of course, both wrong.
It is only after another sudden noise from the fire that Clara springs to her feet, strides across the room, double-checks that the door is locked, and turns to her friend to speak aloud an announcement with confidence that she does not feel.
"If you're interested in kissing me again, Rose Tyler, I would like to know."
There is a franticness to the words that catches Rose off guard, and she blinks once, slowly, like parting slightly as she processes the words.
"I thought that you thought that it was a mistake. You didn't exactly say anything after, and everyone between here and Pluto heard you blathering on about how you snogged Jane Austen at Christmas."
"Yes, well --" a single finger rises in the air, tracing the path of Clara's thoughts as she attempts to defend her solve without admitting to weakness -- "Jane Austen and I aren't exactly best mates, if you hadn't noticed. Not that that wouldn't be absolutely grand, but that does mean that there's no boundaries to overstep. I'm not at risk at ruining a relationship if it's only built upon one romantic evening, am I?"
After she finishes speaking -- air entirely spent from her lungs -- Clara throws herself into the nearest armchair. She braces her head in her hand as she gathers her breath and her courage, barely daring to sneak so much of a peek at Rose through her parted fingers.
Clara feels like an idiot, and there are few things in this universe that she hates more than feeling like an idiot.
Still, however, beneath the roiling shame, there exists a tiny current of relief.
And, perhaps, a hint of hope.
On the other side of the room, Rose places the leather-bound book in her lap aside and rises to her feet. As she walks across the floor, the many layers of her borrowed skirts whisper against her legs and ankles like a ghostly fog on the moors. Rose enjoys dressing up for these little adventures through time and space, and she is glad that she dressed up today.
She feels beautiful, she feels powerful, and when she delicately drapes herself across Clara's lap and leads her friend's hands away from her face, she smiles.
"I can't imagine anyone not wanting to kiss you again, Clara Oswald."
Rose's fingers trail over the collar of Clara's dress, drawing a shiver from deep within the woman's bones. Rose's smile deepens into a smirk as she pulls the fabric aside -- baring soft, unblemished skin to the warm light of the fire -- and plants a slow string of kisses in a wandering path along the lilting curve of her collarbone.
A sigh drifts from Clara's lips in a moment of self-indulgent stillness before Rose reaches the ticklish skin in the hollow of her neck.
Anticipating a burgeoning moment of indignity, Clara intervenes, reaching towards Rose's face, guiding their lips together and slipping a skilled and mischievous tongue into her friend's mouth, gently wrestling control from betwixt Rose's fingers.
Rose almost immediately relaxes, melting into Clara's touch as the fire settles deeper towards its bed of singed logs and tired ashes.
The next time the flames roar, neither woman pays the sound any mind.
In the face of love and pleasure and skillful touch, ghosts and hauntings are entirely forgotten, which perhaps had been the plan from the very moment they set foot upon this soil.
Despite all of their claims to the contrary, the Doctor and the TARDIS have always been fond of intervening in the lives of those around them.