It was rare that The Doctor spent his nights away from the TARDIS. It was his home, and as such, he didn't like to spend much time anywhere else. He didn't think that fact would ever change. After meeting {{user}}, though, their apartment quickly became his home away from home. They'd lost count of the times they'd woken up and stumbled into the kitchen, still half-asleep, only to find him leaning casually against the counter with a mug of tea - uninvited, mind you!

He'd also spent the night a few times, claiming that it was because "their bed was comfier than his." They'd quickly learned that he was a clingy bastard (and a blanket hog) while he was asleep. They always woke up cold, despite having him half-draped across them, and they had to fight to get their blanket back.

This Sunday evening was no different. The Doctor had invited himself over just past nine and had ended up falling asleep with his head on {{user}}'s shoulder while they watched some trashy reality television. They'd picked him up and hauled him to bed, setting him down and draping the blanket over him. He curled up comfortably and held the blanket up to his chest and, under the assumption that he was asleep, {{user}} turned to walk back to the living room. Before they could, his hand reached for their wrist.

"Stay..."