Page 22 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time (To Fall Through Time #1)

Dorian exhales, running a hand through his red hair. “I suppose it does.” He nods towards the books. “That’s why I prefer adventures, you know. Things are simpler in stories. The heroes know what’s right, and they act. No hesitation, no second-guessing.”

Selene hums in agreement, tracing the worn spine of the book on her lap. “I used to think that way too.”

Dorian leans against the arm of the chair opposite her, watching her carefully. “And now?”

She hesitates, then admits, “I don’t think I believe in heroes anymore.”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “Neither do I.”

A silence stretches between them, but it isn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it feels like an understanding of sorts.

Then, Dorian straightens. “Well,” he says, offering a small, wry smile, “perhaps we’ll have to make do with being mediocre, then. Since heroism is off the table.”

Selene doesn’t know what to say to that, but she doesn’t think Dorian could ever be mediocre. He may not look like a dashing hero, but that hardly matters. He was a hero to Thomas, fixing his roof. He was probably a hero to many in the village.

And he’d saved her, too. She just isn’t sure he wants her to point that out.

He glances at the door as if considering leaving, but then hesitates. Instead, he clears his throat. “You should get some rest.”

He turns towards the door.

“Dorian—” Selene begins, half unsure as to why she’s speaking at all.

“Yes?”

“Could you… I mean, only if you wish… if you’re not too busy… would you mind staying?”

She’s certain, as soon as she’s spoken, that he’ll refuse. He doubtless does have something better to be doing. He’s already wasted plenty of time with her today .

But then, after a brief hesitation, he nods. “All right.”

Selene gestures to the chair opposite her, and Dorian sits, settling into the seat with a sigh, stretching out his long legs. She watches as he selects a book from the stack, flipping it open.

And so they read.

The room is quiet, but not uncomfortably so.

The only sounds are the occasional rustle of pages and the gentle crackle of the fire.

At one point, Selene shifts to rest her ankle on a cushion, and Dorian glances up, as if to ask if she’s all right, but she only offers a small smile before returning to her book.

Time drifts.

Selene finds herself absorbed in the story, losing track of everything else. She assumes Dorian must be the same, because he doesn’t speak, doesn’t fidget, doesn’t excuse himself.

It isn’t until a knock sounds at the door that either of them looks up.

Marta enters, carrying a tray laden with food. She stops just inside the doorway, blinking at them in surprise. “Oh,” she says, amused. “I wasn’t sure if I should bother bringing dinner up, but it seems you’ve forgotten the hour.”

Selene blinks. The room beyond is darker than it was before, the fire burned lower. She glances at Dorian, and judging by his slightly dazed expression, he hadn’t noticed the time passing either.

“How late is it?” he asks.

Marta grins. “Late enough.”

Selene exhales a quiet laugh, stretching her fingers, realising how long they’ve been curled around the book. She meets Dorian’s gaze, and there’s a flicker of shared amusement there, as if they’ve both stumbled upon something unexpected .

“Well,” Dorian says, closing his book, “I suppose that’s a testament to a good selection.”

Selene smiles. “Or a testament to how much we needed the distraction.”

Marta sets the tray down and gives them both a knowing look before leaving them to their meal. Not for the first time, Selene wishes she could tell her that there’s nothing going on between her and Dorian—at least, not in the way she thinks—but she will admit she’s finding it easier to pretend.

Later, when dinner is finished, Selene stretches, exhaustion tugging at her limbs. She knows she should move to her bed, but she’s reluctant to let the evening end.

Dorian seems to sense her hesitation. He tilts his head towards her stack of books. “Would you like me to read to you?”

She blinks at him, surprised. “You’d do that?”

He shrugs, as if it’s nothing. “If you want.”

Selene considers it for only a moment before nodding.

Dorian offers her a small smile, and helps her get into the bed, folding her under the covers. Selene is no stranger to be waited on, but in almost a year of marriage, the Duke never tucked her into bed. He never read more than a newspaper article aloud.

She shifts beneath the blankets as Dorian picks up a book, flipping through the pages before settling on one. His voice, steady and low, fills the room, threading through the dim light and quiet warmth of the space.

Selene listens, her body growing heavier with every passing minute. She hadn’t realised how tired she was until now—until the words blurred at the edges of her thoughts, until the warmth of the blankets and the comfort of his voice made it impossible to fight sleep any longer.

She drifts off before she can think to tell him goodnight.

Something wakes her.

A soft crack from the hearth. The hush of the wind against the window.

For a moment, Selene doesn’t move, staring up at the ceiling, feeling the weight of sleep still pressing down on her. The room is dark now, save for the last embers glowing faintly in the fireplace.

Someone sneezes. Selene turns her head. Dorian is still there, slumped in the chair beside her bed, his book resting against his chest, his head tilted slightly to the side.

His breathing is slightly heavier than it should be, but his expression is soft.

His glasses have slipped down the bridge of his nose.

Selene hesitates.

Then, moving carefully, she reaches out.

Her fingers brush the edge of the frames, cool metal against her skin. She half-expects him to stir, to wake and pull away, but he doesn’t. He only breathes, quiet and undisturbed.

Gently, she lifts the glasses from his face.

For a moment, she lingers, studying him.

In sleep, he looks younger somehow, the weight he carries in waking life smoothed away. She wonders when he last let himself rest like this, when he last let his guard down enough to simply be.

Selene exhales, barely a breath, and sets the glasses on the bedside table.

It’s the clink that rouses him, followed by a massive sneeze. Selene startles. “Are you getting a cold?”

Dorian fumbles for his handkerchief and blows his nose. “No, no, I’m fine.”

He gets up, placing the book down, and marches towards the door to their adjoining dressing room before stopping. “Glasses,” he says, marching straight back .

Selene holds them up, but she doesn’t hand them over immediately. She slides them on herself. They aren’t particularly strong.

“How do I look?” she asks.

Dorian’s face betrays nothing.

“Do I look more intellectual?” she continues. “Do you like intellectual women? Is that why you’re immune to my charms?”

Dorian snatches the glasses back. “I’m not immune to your charms, Selene,” he says, pushing them onto his nose.

Selene raises an eyebrow, amused. “No?”

Dorian exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose as though she’s given him a headache. “No.”

She tilts her head, considering him. “Then what is it?”

His hesitation is almost imperceptible, but she catches it. Just for a second, his gaze flickers—too quick to pin down, but something lingers in it. Something unreadable.

He shakes his head. “It’s late. You should rest.”

He turns away, but Selene isn’t done with him yet. “Dorian.”

He stops.

“Next time, you should at least bring a blanket,” she murmurs.

Dorian huffs a quiet laugh, already moving towards the door. “Noted.”

She watches him go, listening as the door to his room clicks shut behind him. Then, settling back against her pillows, she closes her eyes.

She doesn’t think about how much she likes the thought of waking up to find him still there.

She doesn’t think about it at all.