Chapter 9: Rory - Entities to Lovers

Two nights in a row, I return home with Temperance Talbot’s words in my head.

Tonight, at the very least, I have confirmation. I’m not hiding from the looming fear that something happened. Now I know it did. I know this trickster has put some kind of spell on Ezra and me and the only clue I have is to “be afraid.”

I’m afraid for both of us.

Ezra’s bled through two napkins already, and we had to make a pit stop in a twenty-four-hour Dunkin’ for more. I recognize bringing an injured man, still partially wearing eyeliner and with coffee stains all over his shirt, was not the finest way to make an entrance, but I bet they’ve seen worse.

“Next,” he orders, tossing his current napkin into the trash. I deploy another and he balls it up to his head. I told him we should have gone to the ER, but he gave a confident “Ha ha, no.” Thinking about keeping Ezra from bleeding out has kept me from thinking about how he’s going to stay in my apartment.

He doesn’t live alone; I do. If we can’t leave each other’s side without death and destruction, the less questions we have to answer, the better.

Inside, the first thing I do is dim the lights. I loathe overhead lights and I doubt they’re helping the hell of a headache I’m sure Ezra’s nursing. The ASMR ambience video I left on has autoplayed the next, and we’re now in a cozy lo-fi mushroomcore video.

“Are you still bleeding?”

Ezra pulls the napkin from the side of his head. “Less so.”

“Okay, we should clean it up.”

Ezra stands in the entryway, waiting for instruction. He doesn’t even remove his shoes right away. I take his jacket and hang it beside mine. Something about it makes loneliness surge through me. Coats hanging next to one another, shoes touching toes on the floor. Little signs of a shared space. For a split second, I let myself imagine what it’d be like to have someone who makes this haunted little apartment a home.

“Come into the bathroom,” I direct him.

I allow Ezra in and he immediately checks his cut in the mirror. It’s deep, but he shouldn’t need stitches. The early makings of a bruise bloom at the side of his head, but I’m hoping we got ice on it quick enough to keep it from turning too blue.

“I can just wash it off,” he says, reaching for a tissue to dampen.

“We should clean it. With our luck, you’d develop sepsis.”

The reminder of our grim situation cements me to the tile floor. How am I supposed to go to work and do tours separately if I can’t leave Ezra’s side? How is Ezra supposed to go to class when I’m at work? Temperance Talbot might be the one who needs a serious lesson, because this is way too codependent for any adults to work with.

I’m woefully out of control. We both are.

All I can do right now is handle the problem in front of me. And it just so happens to be a grown man who thinks he can put water on a cut and call it a day.

I’ve never had an issue with this bathroom until now. The sink basically butts into the toilet and the toilet’s nearly in the shower. I’m blocked in on all sides by walls and a man who I try so hard to pretend I’m not wildly attracted to.

What’s worse is how good he looks late at night. His hooded eyes are heavy and unfocused, wincing occasionally as throngs of pain hit. A thin layer of stubble coats his cheeks and jaw, and his hair’s an absolute disaster I can’t be rescued from.

I dig through the medicine cabinet for cotton balls and antibacterial gel. Ezra leans against the counter, legs slightly parted to make space for me. I cautiously step closer, letting our knees bump. There are two layers of pants between us, but I feel completely bare and vulnerable. I’m possessed by a flash of him gripping my waist and hoisting me onto the counter. We’re mere inches away from each other and every breath he lets out, I breathe back in. Deadly, deadly proximity.

“Let me see,” I finally whisper. I’ve touched him before—we held hands for the séance—but doing so now feels forbidden like my first forays into channeling spirits, an implicit danger in not knowing what I’d find.

Or what might find me.

I’m afraid one touch will allow my attraction to Ezra to take a full-body possession I’ll never forget, or haunt me until the end of my days.

Despite my reservations, I draw my touch to his jaw and tilt his chin the other way to see the cut on his head. Some of his hair’s fallen in front of it, so I take the risk and run my fingers through it to push it back. His hair is upsettingly soft and the little curl at the end of each lock makes my heart skip a beat. My ring snags on a few strands of hair. He tenses.

“Shit, sorry,” I say.

“It’s okay,” he whispers, like it’s a secret for just us. “Luckily for you, I like having my hair pulled.”

I freeze and retract my hand as soon as possible. What a cruel, diabolical thing to say when I’m this close to him. I don’t need to think of Ezra craning his head back, lips dropping open in ecstasy and sighing—no, I’m going to remember the lecture he gave me on AD 536 and how it was the worst year to be alive, when I mentioned I was having a bad day one time. That should help.

But when I look back up at him, he’s smirking. Nothing helps.

“Uh…congratulations,” I blunder.

I turn my focus to the cotton balls, dousing them with antiseptic. The alcohol finds a small cut on one of my cuticles and I hiss in pain, but really, I am so grateful I can think of something besides knotting my hands in Ezra’s hair again.

I’m going to tidy him up, get ready for bed, and tomorrow, we make a plan. I don’t have time to be cursed and horny at the same time. Especially not with him.

“Well, it’s not too bad,” I say as I examine the cut. “I don’t know what made it start bleeding like that. This may sting.”

“No need to be gentle,” he drawls. “I know you don’t want to be.”

His words settle low in my stomach. “Don’t tempt me. I can hurt you.”

“Oh, I’m sure you can.”

“But I don’t know how to break a curse between me and a dead man.”

I expect it to sound angrier than it comes out. Instead, I trail off into a laugh at the end. It feels so much better than holding in the stress I’ve been carrying since last night. Ezra laughs and shakes his head. Come to think of it, I don’t believe I’ve ever heard him laugh out of character. Royce laughs with gusto and emphasis, but Ezra’s laugh is soft, and more of a rumble in his chest. It’s relaxed, easy, and freeing.

I dab at the side of his head with the cotton ball, wiping away the dried blood. I avoid the cut itself at first, saving it for last. Despite his goading, I’m as gentle as possible, but my hand’s still shaking. This proximity has me so unsteady. Knees wobbly, breathing clipped, and anticipation prickling at my skin. I don’t like him. There’s no reason why I should even be thinking any of this.

Ezra winces as I finally reach the cut. At his twitch of pain, I pull back.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay. You can keep going.”

I grab another cotton ball. This one comes away with far less blood and this time, Ezra doesn’t flinch.

“So.” I need to break this silence somehow. “What street sign did this to you?”

“State Street,” he groans. “I hardly even got out of the bar before it hit me.”

“Like, the sign just fell off? And it’s on the ground?”

He nods. “Exactly that.”

“Maybe we should call the city,” I suggest. “Tell them to fix it. Or see if they’ll give you money.”

“I didn’t take you for the litigious type,” Ezra remarks.

I eye the guillotine tattoo on his forearm. “Hey, a government should fear their people, right?”

“Right.”

“Tilt your head down for me,” I ask. He obliges and dips his head lower so I can see the damage better.

I step closer, knees bumping into the sink cabinets, and chest to chest with him. If one of us breathes too hard, we’ll be touching. He might feel the way my heart is beating through my rib cage. He might know what he’s doing to me, and god, he’ll never let me live that down.

“It’s very rare that I’m too tall for someone to reach,” he laughs.

“How tall are you?” I ask.

“Five-eight. Five-nine if I’m being particularly duplicitous.”

It’s shorter than I expect because Ezra doesn’t feel short. His presence is loud and attention-grabbing. Everything from his angled face to deep brown eyes, full lashes, and that crooked smile are great at drawing stares. I often notice him like he is the biggest person in the room.

“I mean, everything feels tall compared to me down here.”

“Aw, little witch.”

Ezra calls me all sorts of nicknames at work. Notable psychics, historical figures, or literary characters. It’s all part of the game we play together, but this one seems cute. Affectionate, even. His smile is honest and charming, and for the first time since I’ve known him, we’re not really fighting. Verbal sparring, sure, but that counts as a love language for some.

Are we…enjoying each other’s company?

Dear god.

“Let’s patch you up,” I say because I need to get the fuck out of this tiny bathroom. Out of here with this alluring man near-straddling me, away from his bergamot cologne, and somewhere I cannot see his lush eyelashes and the tiny scar on his chin.

I pull out a box of hydrocolloid Band-Aids and unwrap one. It’ll blend in more, and will help it heal.

I motion for him to turn his head again.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, leaning to one side. The muscles in his neck stretch. I follow the slant of them down to his chest, where the V in his T-shirt dips with the movement. A minuscule flash of black ink shows beside his heart. Another secret I have yet to discover.

I seal the bandage over the wound. He winces one more time.

“Do you have some kind of spell to make it heal faster? My kids are going to roast me.”

My kids. There’s something charming and caring about the way he talks about his students. I imagine him getting kids excited about history, trying to make them care as much as he does. It’s…a new perspective on Ezra’s job.

“Sadly, no,” I lament. “The level of actual spellcraft I do is…really small.”

“Could have fooled me. What do you do?”

Is he asking seriously? Does he want to know? His tone is inquisitive, not judgy. “Sometimes I make little sachets with herbs in them for things like protection, positivity, gratitude.”

Ezra gently nods, taking it in. “Does it work?”

I’d never call myself a “witch” and my form of practicing is mostly by osmosis through the store. I know enough to help people pick out herbs and oils for their spells, my mom advises me to write someone’s name and stick it in an ice cube tray to freeze when I want them out of my head, and I trust my cards with my life. It gives me comfort and control when I do things to protect or guide myself.

“Sometimes. Other stuff is more practical. Like teas. Salves. Some oils—”

I don’t say anything else before Ezra contracts in pain and shuts his eyes. “Sorry. This headache is—”

“Here,” I offer. He steps away so I can reach the medicine cabinet and fetch a bottle of ibuprofen.

He lets out a little gasp of pleasure. “Well, I know this will work.”

He examines the bandaging on his head, shakes out two pills, and downs them with a mouthful of water.

“Better than rubbing a leaf on my face and hoping for the best,” he says with a cocky grin. He knows the outcome and is braced for it. No, welcomes it, and I’d hate to disappoint.

I give his shoulder a small shove as we exit the bathroom and convene in the main room. “Now you’re being an asshole. I figured your love of the past would make that sound decent, since, you know, history is full of people prescribing cocaine as a cure for the flu.”

“Oh, hey now,” he chides. “They didn’t know any better.”

“Throughout history, people didn’t wash their hands,” I argue. “I know this because I’ve been confronted in the bathroom with a spirit before and they were shocked to see me scrubbing away.”

Ezra rolls his eyes, still a little off balance from the headache. “Maybe you got an absolutely nasty ghost watching you pee.”

I frown. “Creepy.”

Suddenly, Ezra’s eyes flit behind me. His jaw tightens and he blinks a few times to shake himself out of it.

“I know I took a blow to the head, but I swear your pillows just moved.”

I turn, where, sure enough, Luna is arranging my pillows in size order. The celestial map throw pillow is the biggest, then a crescent moon pillow, and some mushroom-shaped ones I couldn’t resist buying three of. She has enough energy to move them to her liking and sometimes changes it up. Right now, she’s trying to tell me it’s bedtime.

Sometimes Luna feels like having a cat. An invisible cat.

“Oh,” I say.

“Rory, is there something in here?”

“You don’t have to worry about her!” I reassure him. “It’s just Luna.”

“Oh, good,” he gripes, “it has a name.”

“She likes to organize, see?” I move to the bed and sit with her.

“Is she going to, like…touch me?” Ezra rubs the back of his neck. “While I’m sleeping?”

“No,” I confirm. “Luna, this is Ezra. He’s going to be staying here tonight. Please leave him alone. I think he’s a little scared of ghosts.”

“I am not scared of ghosts!” he declares. Everything about him speaks to the contrary. His posture is rigid, and he holds his hands in front of his body as if to say Please do not touch me, resident ghost. This…oh, this is fucking hilarious and I’m about to have a field day.

“Inside voice. I’d expect better from a teacher.”

“Forgive me if I’m a little unsettled by the literal ghost in your apartment. I might work at a ghost tour, but I don’t have to interact with the ghosts there!”

“Aw, a ghost virgin.” I plant my hands on my hips. “Luna, do me a favor and don’t bother Ezra tonight. Don’t tickle him or play with his hair. Leave him alone. Copy?”

Luna flickers the fairy lights above my bed.

“Thank you,” I tell her. I turn back to Ezra, who has crossed his arms and scrunched his shoulders in discomfort. “You good?”

“Yeah,” he says, voice pitching up. “Great. It’s…awesome. I’m doing wonderful.”

With that settled, the fear of having to share this space with him sets in. I like my time alone and sleeping comfortably. Instead, I’m going to be hypervigilant of Ezra’s every move and will probably have to listen to him snore all night. I’m going to have to dance around him in my own space.

I hate this so much.

No amount of teasing him about ghosts will make his presence comforting or welcome around here.

“I’m going to get ready for bed,” I announce.

Ezra shoves his hands in his pockets. “Okay.”

“Couch is all yours. There are blankets in the basket next to it.”

Ezra nods and carefully disrobes his stained button-down. I’ve never seen him in just a T-shirt before, and I realize there’s another tattoo on his arm, below the right sleeve. It’s rectangular, with broken edges on each side, a group in togas, carrying vases of water on their shoulders—Greek or Roman, maybe. Like all the tattoos I’ve seen so far, they’re clear homages to things he loves, moments of history he longs to preserve.

His biceps are also…they are nice. Yes.

They’re the kind of arms formed by carrying heavy textbooks, running across the quad to his next class, or more recently, helping my mom around the store. Practical, smart, and unintentionally hot nevertheless. Like a lot of things he does.

I scurry into the bathroom to wash my face, brush my teeth, and do my evening skincare routine. Until we figure this out, it will likely be the only alone time I’ll get. I’m used to wearing all my insecurities like cinder blocks bolted to my ankles, but I swim upward as hard as I can to find my own personal sanctuaries. Nothing ever feels safe when I let people close to me. They’ll always find something about me that’s disappointing, and unlovable. I know Ezra already dislikes me, but he can still hurt me.

I apply a brightening serum to hopefully brighten the fucking vibes, roll some lavender oil onto my wrists, and brave the rest of my apartment. When I return, Ezra’s leaned back on the couch, one of my warmest blankets pulled over his body. He’s got an arm propped behind his head, scrolling on his phone. Oh my god, did he take his pants off? I don’t know. Is his leg hair touching my couch?

As I pass around him, I notice his phone screen is a wall of tiny text. He’s…reading and being quiet.

“What are you reading?” I ask, climbing into bed.

I debate if I want to wear my little eye mask to sleep, but god damn it, Ezra or not, I deserve rest. I’m not getting any younger.

“Uh…” he mumbles, “a new paper up on JSTOR. Dark Ages.”

“Oh…”

“Interesting,” he says. His voice is low, as he’s beginning to doze off. “A little verbose.”

“I see. Uh, well…”

Ezra flips over and looks at me. His hair’s even messier, the Band-Aid looks like it’s holding, his cut’s no longer bleeding, and the pain seems to be easing away.

“Yeah?”

“Do you snore?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Good. Then, good night, Ezra.”

“ ’Night, Rory.”