Page 43 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time (To Fall Through Time #1)

“You never struck me as the sentimental type.”

Soren shifts, groaning at the effort. “I’m not.”

Selene traces a finger over a particularly intricate carving of a wyvern. It’s beautifully done, wings spread in mid-flight, every scale carefully notched. It suddenly strikes her how young Soren really is.

She exhales softly. “You should rest.”

“Can’t,” Soren mutters. “Hurts too much.”

She hesitates before crossing the room, picking up the damp cloth in the bowl by his bedside, and pressing it gently to his forehead. His whole body stills for a moment, like he’s not sure what to do with the action.

“You’ll be fine,” she says, softer now.

Soren sighs, letting his eyes drift closed again. “If I die, burn my things.”

Selene rolls her eyes. “You’re not dying, Soren.”

“Feels like I am.”

She wonders if he—and maybe Ariella too—downplayed how sick he was because they knew Dorian wouldn’t want to leave if he knew.

Soren is practically his brother, after all.

It makes sense that he’d be like him. Dorian likes to disguise how bad he feels, too.

She’s grown used to Dorian’s discomfort feeling like her own.

She’s surprised to find herself feeling a similar way about Soren.

“Can I get you anything?” she asks him.

He shakes his head. “No, but… if you want to stay here for a bit longer, I won’t kick you out.”

He says it like he believes he’s capable of rising from the bed and physically manhandling her out of the door, which seems unlikely. She rinses out the cloth and reapplies the compress. Taking his hand seems a bit too far, but she pulls up a chair and sits beside him.

“Dorian told me about Luna,” she tells him.

He opens an eye. “Luna?”

“The woman he lost.”

“Oh.”

“You didn’t know her name?”

“Dorian is very… secretive about her.”

Selene watches Soren carefully, noting the slight furrow of his brow, the way his fingers twitch against the blankets—one of them bandaged. He shifts, wincing as he tries to find a more comfortable position, but his exhaustion keeps him from moving much .

“You knew about her, though,” she says, watching for his reaction.

Soren’s eye slides shut again. “He never said much about what happened between them, just that it was his fault.”

Selene frowns. “Do you believe that?”

A long silence. Then, quietly, “Dorian thinks that everything is his fault and everything is his responsibility to fix. He’s rarely right about it, though.”

“That sounds like him.”

“Dorian’s the best man I’ve ever met,” Soren murmurs. “Him, and his father. I didn’t even know there were good people in the world until I met them. Well, I knew good people existed, but—”

“Not kind ones,” Selene finishes.

Soren nods.

“I think you and I are the same there.”

Soren stiffens. Something like a tear trickles down his cheek. It might just be sweat. Or pain. Selene brushes it away.

“I’m sorry I was awful to you when you first came here,” he says quietly.

“That’s all right,” she tells him, dabbing at his forehead. “It’s hard to be nice when you’re hurting.”

“Dorian manages it.”

“Well, we’ve already established that he’s exceptional.”

Her gaze drifts back to the shelf of wooden figurines, then to the stack of books beside his bed—a curious mix of adventure tales and books on poison, lest anyone forget Soren had once been an assassin. The bindings are worn, the pages curled at the edges from years of being thumbed through.

“Do you have a favourite?” she asks, gesturing to the books.

Soren huffs a tired breath. “Are you planning to read me a bedtime story?”

“I could.” She raises an eyebrow. “Or you can lie here and suffer in silence. ”

His lips quirk, just barely. “Third one from the top.”

She plucks the book from the pile. The cover is old, the title nearly worn away, but she can just make out The Shadow Captain in faded gold lettering. Flipping it open, she settles into the chair beside the bed.

Soren doesn’t protest. He just shifts slightly, making himself comfortable, and lets his eyes drift shut as she begins to read.

Her voice fills the quiet room, steady and even. At first, Soren remains tense, as if expecting to be dragged back to wakefulness by pain or fever. But as the story unfolds—of storms and shipwrecks, of daring escapes and lost treasures—he relaxes, his breaths growing slower, deeper.

She turns a page and glances up. He’s asleep.

Selene lowers the book onto her lap, watching him for a moment. In sleep, he looks younger, the hard edges of his usual expression softened. It reminds her, again, of just how little time he’s had to be anything other than a soldier, a weapon.

A quiet creak at the door draws her attention. Dorian stands there, leaning against the frame. His gaze flicks from her to Soren, then to the book in her lap.

“How is he doing?” he asks her.

“He’ll be fine.”

Dorian exhales, stepping closer. His gaze lingers on Soren for a moment before shifting back to her. “Thank you.”

Selene shrugs. “It’s nothing.”

He gives her a small, unreadable smile before shifting his focus back to Soren. Selene watches him, the way his expression softens just slightly, the way his fingers twitch like he wants to reach out but doesn’t.

She closes the book. “I’ll leave you with him.”

As she rises, Dorian catches her wrist, just briefly, his touch warm against her skin. “Stay? ”

Selene hesitates, then nods. They sit together and watch him sleep. Dorian watches him less like a concerned brother, and more like a father. It makes her chest ache.

He would have made an excellent father. He still might, if he ever grew less afraid, or learned to carry his fears more easily.

“Dorian?” she says.

“Yes?”

“I don’t regret last night.”

Dorian sighs. “I don’t, either.”

It’s all she can bring herself to say.