Page 50 of The Girl Who Fell Through Time
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?”
