She looked at him in profile, the damaged side of his face the only part she could see in that moment, and still he was beautiful. As beautiful as that photo she’d first gazed upon on the library monitor what seemed like a thousand years before. More beautiful maybe, because the scars she was looking at spoke of the fact that he’d tackled a man with a gun in his hand and a bomb strapped to his chest while everyone else was running away. It spoke of his suffering, but ultimately of his heroism, his care and concern for others, his soul, and God, she hoped those scars would speak of his triumph.
