Page 24 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time (To Fall Through Time #1)

He doesn’t look happy to be reminded of this, but he doesn’t object when she steps closer and slowly peels back his hastily thrown-on shirt to examine the bruising.

She doesn’t know, exactly, what she intends to do.

She’s no nurse and knows nothing about wounds, but she does know pain, and she knows she wants to ease his.

Gently, she places her fingers to the tender flesh. Dorian’s breath hitches. “What can I do?” she asks.

“A cold… a cold compress wouldn’t go amiss,” he whispers.

Selene nods, running a towel under the tap, and folding it into a rough square to place against his side. Dorian slides onto the rim of the bathtub. He hisses through his teeth.

“Sorry,” Selene says. “Does it hurt?”

“Yes,” he admits. His hand comes close to hers, and for a moment, she expects him to take over, or throw her hand away in annoyance, but instead his fingers close around hers, holding her touch to him.

In all her life, no one has ever held her hand like this, so lightly she’s only half-sure of sensation.

It’s butter soft. “But please don’t stop. ”

Selene’s throat goes very dry. She doesn’t want to stop, especially when he’s asking her so nicely, but her knees are starting to ache from crouching in this manner, and Dorian looks like he’s about to pass out from exhaustion. “I think you should go to bed,” she tells him.

Dorian groans, like this suggestion is more painful than the bruises on his side. His head leans forward, coming within a fraction of Selene’s shoulder. His breath ghosts her neck. “ All right,” he murmurs after a moment, and grudgingly climbs to his feet.

Selene follows him back to his room, carrying the compress. She doesn’t really think he’ll pass out before he gets there, but for some reason she can’t explain, she wants to make sure he gets there safely. Dorian stumbles into the room, looking surprised to find her still behind him.

His room is surprisingly tidy. The walls are painted a muted sage green, deepened by the dim glow of the lamp on his desk.

Bookshelves line one side of the room, crammed with leather-bound volumes and loose sheets of parchment, some neatly stacked, others curled at the edges as if often handled.

A few are strewn across the writing desk, alongside an inkwell and a quill left mid-use, the ink barely dry on the nib.

The bed is a sturdy four-poster, its dark wooden frame carved with subtle embellishments. A thick woollen blanket, a shade darker than the walls, is turned down at the foot, and Selene notices a book resting open on the pillow, its spine cracked from frequent reading.

Near the window, where the curtains are only half-drawn, a small display cabinet holds a handful of figurines: finely crafted horses in varying poses—rearing, galloping, standing proud with arched necks. Above them, a faded hunting print hangs on the wall, the horses in motion, their riders poised.

Selene hesitates in the doorway, suddenly aware of the intimacy of stepping into another person’s private space, but Dorian merely sighs, easing himself down onto the bed.

He makes no move to pull back the covers, only resting on the edge with his hands braced on either side of him, as if the effort of remaining upright is all he can muster.

She presses the compress to his ribs again, this time more gently. He exhales, head tipping back against the bedpost, his eyes half-lidded with weariness .

“You should lie down,” she murmurs.

Dorian hums, but doesn’t move. Selene watches him for a moment, then, before she can second-guess herself, reaches for the blanket and pulls it up over his shoulders. He doesn’t open his eyes, but she sees the faintest trace of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, so softly she almost doesn’t hear it.

It occurs to her that, with his side so badly bruised, taking off his boots is going to be tricky. She leans down to unlace them, tugging them off and placing them neatly to the side. Dorian is all but asleep when she finishes.

She lingers only a moment longer before quietly stepping back, returning to the bathing room to continue getting ready for bed.

After she finishes, she notices Dorian’s glasses by the side of the sink.

Not wanting him to have to hunt for them tomorrow, she picks them up and tiptoes back into his room to place them on his bedside table. Dorian is murmuring on the bed.

She puts the glasses down and turns her back, not wanting to disturb him. She’s almost to the door when she hears Dorian call out.

“ Luna.”

She stills. Is he calling for someone? Luna is a name, she thinks, though an uncommon one.

Perhaps she misheard—

“Luna,” he cries out again. And it is a cry—desperate, pained.

She thinks about waking him. He came to her when she was plagued by nightmares. But then, would she have to admit she overheard him. She could be honest. He might be embarrassed.

Does she really want to know who he’s calling for?

Does she want to leave him in pain ?

Selene hesitates long enough that the distress pinching his features lessens. He stops murmuring, his breathing evening out. Content that he’s no longer trapped in a nightmare, Selene steps away.

She takes the name with her.