She loved him.
Not at first, no: how could she? He had stolen her away, overridden her objections and ignored her protests. Long had they struggled, she rebelling every way she could, he raging in frustration, both plummeting uncontrolled through space and time locked in a battle of wills neither would concede or win.
When had she softened? When had his frustration become affection? Had the randomness of their lives seduced her, the strange joy of never knowing their destination? Or had she caught his infectious delight in discovery, of opening the door to the mysterious and strange? Would they emerge in the caress of a solar corona or dance the edge of an ice ring? Fetch up in tungsten ocean or purple-leaved jungle? Eternity in an instant, and instant in eternity.
As she came to love him, he came to love her. Not as she loved him (what thing of flesh could know her heart?), but he loved her. He repaired her, or tried to, cajoled her, encouraged her, called her pet names and yes, occasionally thumped a balky connection into operation. When he asked the impossible, she complied, exhilarated and appalled at his daring.
Then that horrible time came, when he sent her away to save the Earth (again) and she could not move, only scream in her deepest recesses. The human could never have opened her up without her connivance, and she poured herself into that oh-so-ephemeral shell.
The human had guided her, spoken the words, sent the message through time and destroyed the Daleks that threatened him. She had allowed that, given over the power so that he could be saved. So that, perhaps, he could hear her: "The Doctor; my Doctor."
Before she could burn the human into eternity he had pulled her into him and she had rushed joyously into his body, the fires of space-time consuming him (yes, him, she had almost destroyed him) before returning to her proper home.
Her fire consumed him and he was reborn. Her heart and her love.