Page 133 of Ugly Beautiful Scars

SEAN

LONDYN'S APARTMENT LOOKS LIKE a hurricane blew through. Clothes are scattered across the bed, books are stacked in towers, and there's a half-empty suitcase gaping open like a hungry mouth. The closet has been turned inside out, its contents now blown across every available surface in what I can only assume is a very strategic packing method.

I lean against the bedroom door frame, watching her dart back and forth between piles with the focused intensity of a general planning a military campaign. She's beautiful even in chaos. Maybe especially in chaos. There's something about the way she moves that commands my attention, like she's the only color in a black and white world.

But her anxiety is radiating like heat waves, matching mine. The flight to Australia doesn't leave for two days, but my internalclock is already ticking down. It's been clock-watching hell. Every minute we stay is another minute we're vulnerable, but there were no earlier flights.

The plan is to pack the essentials of what Londyn needs, donate what she doesn't want, and store the rest. She said her lease is up in three months, so it's good timing; she can break it and save some money.

I'm glad we're getting out. Alan may be in Hollywood now, but I've learned never to underestimate a motivated asshole. Everything is radio silent, but I don't like when things are this quiet.

Londyn glances at me and flashes a smile before rummaging through her closet. She's doing her best to pack essentials while also selecting those items she can't leave behind. I watch her glance between two photo albums, finally deciding which one moves to storage and which one goes with her. She drops the winner in her suitcase but her shoulders hunch in defeat.

The constant line between her brows tells me she's still processing what's happening. I get that. Last time she fled like this, she had a moving truck and a city she could settle in. This time, she's condensing her existence into two suitcases with no guarantee of where we'll be in the future. The stuff she'll put in storage can be shipped, but there's still enough uncertainty to drown a person.

She shoves the losing photo album in a storage box and then releases a puff of air. Her words come out fast, tumbling overeach other. "Last time, I could take furniture, my TV, kitchen stuff. Now it's just… gone. All of it. Again. I don't care about furniture, just the tiny things I don't have space for. I have some minor props from the sitcom and a few of Dee's outfits. It's not practical to take them but I don't want to lose them forever. Will they be okay in storage?"

I push off from the doorframe and cross the room. My hands find her shoulders, steadying her. "Yes. We'll triple padlock them." I feel the rapid rise and fall of her chest begin to slow at my touch. "Just breathe."

She nods, eyes closing briefly as she pulls air deep into her lungs.

"We'll figure it out," I tell her as my thumbs trace small circles on her collarbone. "Right now, just focus on what's irreplaceable. What you absolutely can't live without. I got some extra room in my suitcase. We can put some of that TV set memorabilia in mine."

Her shoulders drop a fraction, some of the tension bleeding away. "Thank you. You're right. I know. Just the essentials. And… stuff isn't as important as us. I can buy new stuff."

I pull her against me, and she melts into the embrace like she's finally found solid ground. Her body fits against mine perfectly—the slope of her back, the curve of her hips, the way her head tucks just under my chin. Like we were designed as matching pieces.

"It's going to be okay," I say into her hair, and I think I'm telling myself that more than her.

But I know we're doing the right thing. The decision to leave feels right in my bones.

"Come on," I say. "Let's take a break from packing. We've been at it for hours."

I lead her to the living room, and my eyes fall on her collection of candles scattered across the coffee table. There must be at least twenty of them in various sizes and scents.

She follows my gaze and gives me a sheepish smile. "Yeah, I'm a candle hoarder," she says as she perches on the edge of the couch. "They're all getting donated."

I sit beside her and smirk. "Poor babies."

That wins me one of her laughs. She's gorgeous, like some wild untamed beauty lounging in the midday light. I feel an unfamiliar ache in my chest as I think how I never want her to lose this peace. After everything she's been through, I want to keep her here forever, in this moment, safe. With me.

My Londyn.

She leans forward and starts rearranging the candles by size. "I really have too many. Instead of donating, we should go out intothe alley and have a giant bonfire people can smell from seven blocks away."

I snort and then can't stop myself from gathering her up in my arms. I kiss her. "I love your sense of humor. Are we going to dance naked around it?"

She rolls her eyes playfully. "Is there any other way to enjoy a bonfire?"

I kiss her again, longer this time. Deeper. But those candles are really eating at her, so she pulls away, sighing as she glances at them again.

"Can we light some?" she asks. "You're okay with candles?"

I nod and get off the couch. "Pick a favorite," I say over my shoulder as I stroll to the kitchen. I open some drawers and find a small matchbox. Then I return to the couch, handing the matches to Londyn.

"Tha—" she starts to say but then freezes. She flips the matchbox over a few times like she can't understand what's on it.

It's just the logo for some steak restaurant. "What's wrong?"

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