We laid there together, wrapped in each other’s nakedness. My fingers traced the scars on his back, slow and absentminded.

Some were old—barely raised, like whispers under the skin. Others were newer, angry and pink. My thumb paused on one near his shoulder blade.

“This one,” I said softly, “from football?”

He hummed. “Riley pushed me down the stairs when we were twelve.”

I blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

“Yeah.” He chuckled, low and muffled in the pillow. “I ...