They were falling all over again.
It had been a peaceful night, a solemn blanket fell over the sky, clouding the constellations from their view and so they had no lost stars to watch over, no cosmos to weigh its burden.
Instead, they stayed in. He even laughed out loud in the middle of a story about some Slitheen. She beamed and curled her tongue round her lip, swiping and moistening it.
But then came stories of the man with the blue box, of glasses and trainers and a distant Northern accent.
And even as the sleek, selfish words about her relationship with the Doctor dripped from his mouth, he knew it was cruel.
And suddenly Rose was falling. She was left behind, feeling momentarily dazed and useless and forsaken. And this time there was no one to catch her.
As the tears sprung from her eyes, her limbs pulled far from his, and her hand gripped to the wood frame of a near door, Loki drew back, frightened of his own viscous attempt to keep her for himself.
And Loki was falling, unworthy of this girl, unworthy of her love, unworthy of her kindness.
And together they stood, wet-eyed and alone under a starless sky.