Page 19 of Beyond Reason

My brain couldn’t reconcile the fact that I’d fallen asleep on the couch last night talking to a ghost.

Only… the ghost was walking around my kitchen shirtless, in a body that looked different, and was apparently more than corporeal enough to cook me breakfast. I was torn between the instinct to lay there and watch his back, and some strange need to get up and throw him out of my house.

He was so much smaller than Xavier had been, but he moved like he knew exactly what he was doing. Worse, I noticed when he faltered, and I realized exactly why he did it. He rose on his toes to reach into the top cabinet and let out a low curse when he realized the cups weren’t there.

I’d moved them a few years ago, but when Xavier had been alive, that was where they were.

When he opened the refrigerator, he examined containers with curiosity, and I didn’t have it in me to tell him I’d stopped buying all the brands he’d introduced me to after he’d died because it hurt too much to look at them. It hurt too much to remember every time he teased me until I gave in and tried something new.

It hurt to know that he’d never get the chance to do it again.

If I let my vision go blurry, I couldn’t see the difference between the man who I’d watched before and the one moving in my kitchen now… so calm.

So sure.

So impossible and different and exactly the same.

I didn’t know if I had it in me to fight him anymore. To fight the impossibly obvious truth that was staring me in the face.

Somehow, this was Xavier.

Beyond all reason, he was here. He was in my kitchen. He was making me breakfast, and all I could do was stare at an unfamiliar body and feel my heart breaking all over again because I couldn’t let myself have this.

I couldn’t let myself have him.

He’d died before, and I hadn’t been able to keep him safe.

He’d died before, and it had been all my fault.

I couldn’t let it happen again.

But even as I stood, prepared to tell him that he had to get out of my house, I knew the words weren’t going to form on my tongue.

Maybe I couldn’t have him in the ways that I wanted—maybe I needed to make sure that I never pressed my lips to his again—but I could still keep him here.

I need an anchor.

If I focused, if I didn’t let my guard down getting caught up in him… then maybe I could keep him safe. Maybe I could be that for him.

If he was here long enough, maybe I wouldn’t have to let my vision blur to see the man I’d loved before. He was smaller, but I could see the similarities in his features. If he trained, he could be strong again.

If I helped him, he could protect himself.

I let my gaze finally focus to see him. I traced along the lines of his shoulders and the burn scars, then down to his chest.

His chest—this was the first time I’d seen him shirtless, and the sight of the birthmarks dancing across his skin felt like a knife in my stomach.

Red splotches on the left, in the center. Two over his stomach.

And the long red gash on his side.

I knew those marks—I recognized those marks.

I’d sewn them up with trembling fingers, knowing it was too late to do anything to save him.

It took me a second to realize they were birthmarks and not open wounds, but it was already too late.

Bullet wounds.

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