"So as long as you're looking at them, you're safe?"
"Yes, but..." I realize I'm breathing easier. The band around my chest is loosening. "You can't look forever. Eventually, you have to blink."
"What if someone else watches while you blink?"
"That's..." I frown at him. "That's actually what they do in the episode. Take turns."
"Smart." His hand brushes my elbow, so light I might've imagined it. "So you need backup. Someone to watch when you can't."
The touch grounds me. Pulls me back into my body. "This is ridiculous. We're supposed to be practicing."
"We are. You're teaching me about terrifying time-eating angels." His hands run gently down my arms. Another brush of fingers, this time against my wrist. "What happens after they send you back?"
"You live out your life in the past. The Doctor calls it killing you nicely."
"Fuck. That's dark." He's, hell… he's right in front of me. I can feel the heat rolling off him. When did he get so close? I can smell his deodorant mixing with workout sweat. See the faint freckles across his nose. "But you survive, right? Just in a different time?"
"I... yes." My cards are crumpled in my hands. When did I do that? "You adapt. Have to."
"Like neuroplasticity."
I blink at him. "What?"
"The brain adapting. Reorganizing. Like your presentation." He grins. "Which you obviously know backward and forward. You were doing that thing where you quote studies by memory."
"I wasn't?—"
"’Chen et al, 2019. Martindale's longitudinal study.’ You rattled off like six sources without looking at your cards once."
He was actually listening. While I was freezing up like an idiot, he was paying attention. "Those are foundational studies in the field."
"See? You know this shit." His hand settles on my shoulder, warm and solid. "You just need to remember that when the seats are full."
The weight of his hand is... distracting. He's got strong hands. I can feel it through my hoodie. "It's not that simple."
"Sure it is. You explained quantum-locked murder angels to me without stuttering once."
"That's different."
"Why?"
"Because you asked. You wanted to know." The truth slips out before I can stop it, and my head ducks down to hide my face. "You weren't judging whether I deserve to be here."
His hand tightens slightly. "You think that's what they're doing? Deciding if you deserve it?"
"Don't they?" The words taste bitter. "First-generation college student. Working-class family. No connections, no legacy, just grades and desperation. You think admissions committees don't see right through?—"
"Hey." Both hands on my shoulders now, and fuck, they're huge. They could probably span my entire back. "You're brilliant. You know that, right?"
"Knowing material isn't?—"
"Not just the material. The way you think. How you connect things. Like..." He pauses, chewing his lip. "Okay, when you explained the angels? You didn't just recite facts. You made it real. Made me give a shit about British sci-fi."
"Doctor Who is a cultural institution?—"
"See? There. That passion." His thumbs move in small circles, and I absolutely do not lean into it. "That's what they need to see. Not some robot reciting facts."
"I don't know how to do that in front of people."
