Page 88 of Ugly Beautiful Scars

My attention shifts to the painting Sean hung. The contrast between the colors outside the painted window and the muted grays inside feels different today. The brilliant outside colors aren't just visible, they're accessible. One step is all it would take.

One step toward Sean. Toward reclaiming pieces of myself.

It starts with sharing part of my story, which isnoteasy.

The gray I've lived in has felt safe, but it's also been suffocating me slowly. I've been clinging to it because the alternative—stepping back into color and visibility—is terrifying.

But what kind of life is this? This half-existence where I don't enjoy living?

"Londyn."

My name in his voice feels like a touch. It's low and gentle, wrapping around me with a warmth that makes my pulse flutter. I turn slowly, my body suddenly, acutely aware.

There he is.

Sean stands in his bedroom doorway, freshly showered. His blue hair is darkened to indigo and clinging to his forehead in damp sections. He's shirtless, with only jeans riding low on his trim hips. Strong, lean muscles flow beneath tanned skin.

Words hitch in my throat as my eyes trace the defined ridges of those abs, the sculpted planes of his chest, the strong curve of his shoulders. Drops of water cling to his collarbone, tracing paths downward that my fingers beg to follow.

A molten ache spreads low in my belly, flowing outward in waves that contradict everything I thought I knew about myself. After The Director, I never imagined I could look at a man's body again and feel this rush of pure, unfiltered need.

But this isn't just any man. It's Sean.

I notice his hands are shoved deep in his pockets, his stance deliberately open and non-threatening. He's keeping his distance and making himself smaller somehow despite his imposing frame. He's reading me like an open book and accommodating me without me asking.

My heart aches at his thoughtfulness, at how easily he seems to understand what I need.

"Um, Mike went out for coffee," I say. "I thought we could have some time alone to talk?"

"Yeah," he nods, those dark, earthy eyes never leaving mine.

Now, where to begin?

Before I can figure it out, my eyes are drawn to Sean's bare, strong chest again. Then I'm the one who moves closer, pulled toward him like the ocean to the shore. My fingers reach out to trace a raised scar that cuts across his left pectoral muscle.

"From the Marines," he says, remaining perfectly still. "Enemy fire."

I gasp softly, the reality of what he's saying hitting me. "You were shot?"

"A few times. Here and once in the thigh. No permanent damage, but they hurt like hell."

I nod, unable to resist touching him again as my eyes slip to another long scar along his side. The raised surface is warm under my fingertip. "This one?"

He's still keeping his hands in his pockets, maintaining distance even as I'm taking liberties. He flashes that lopsided smirk that reveals a tooth. "I want to sound tough and say it was a knife fight," he says, "but I caught myself on a rusty fence. I was working security and in pursuit of someone. Hopped over a fence. Shredded myself on the way down."

"That still makes you tough. I bet you kept chasing the person, didn't you?"

"Yeah."

My thoughts drift to my own scars—the seventeen red lines across my stomach, the whip marks on my back. Ugly, violent reminders of a man I just want to forget. If I ever found the courage to show Sean, what would he say? His scars are badges of honor, proof of his courage and dedication. Mine are just… damage. Proof of my vulnerability as a woman.

I step back, hugging my waist, the enormity of what I came here to say suddenly overwhelming.

"How are you?" he asks, his voice impossibly gentle.

Such a simple question with such a complicated answer. The truth is, I'm not okay. I'm feeling exposed, sensitive, emotionally raw. And I'm angry. At myself, at The Director, at a world that lets predators get away with their horrors. I'm irritated that I can't just enjoy intimacy with a man I choose.

"I know I… surprised you yesterday," I say, skipping his question entirely.

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