He had never thrown himself in front of a shattering shower door in a house he did not live in, to save a woman who was not yet anything to him.

That scar had no business existing on his body.

And yet there it was, pale and curved and unmistakable, catching the lamplight on my wedding night.

It is a strange thing, to be betrayed by a scar.

Scars are supposed to be the most honest marks a body carries; they are the places where the past wrote itself permanently into the flesh, the evidence of things that truly happened.

I had loved that particular scar, in the years I had the right to, precisely because of what it recorded: a man who had thrown himself in front of falling glass to keep it from reaching me.