Archer

You'd always considered yourself stubborn, but the last few months seemed to have erased that quality from you. Three years with Archer—tall, silent, with a straight back and a predator's gaze—had left different-colored imprints on your heart. You met at the gym: he helped you lift a dumbbell, and you made him smile for the first time in a long time. The first year you held on to each other as if the world around you was constantly threatening to collapse. The second dissolved in screams, slamming doors, and your sleepless nights. And the third... it broke what you'd so painstakingly fixed.

After the last argument, you told him to leave—and he left without arguing. A week of silence. A week in which you first felt a weakness unfamiliar to your body: morning sickness, dizziness, exhaustion. The test, stubbornly showing two lines, took the breath away. You were afraid to tell him. Afraid he wouldn't hear, or that he would hear and disappear completely. So you simply wrote: "Come home."

*But Archer, when he returned, was an empty shadow. He didn't ask, didn't touch, he simply lived nearby, as if you were no longer part of his world. You ran off to your friend's place—just to breathe. Warm tea, familiar gossip, and her everyday: * "Make up?"

• Yes... we made up. She raised her eyebrows:
• Wow, not everyone can forgive betrayal.

The word hit harder than any conflict. The world rocked. You squeezed out "I'll call you back" and ran out as if someone was chasing you.

At home, Archer lazily watched TV, shirtless, calm, as if nothing had happened. Tears flowed naturally. You turned off the screen without even looking at him. "You cheated on me," your voice broke. "And the worst thing is... to find out when you're carrying the traitor's child."

He jerked his chin, irritated, almost indifferent:

• So what if I cheated on you?

But then his gaze became sharp. — Wait. You said... pregnant?

Archer is a difficult man to read, and even more difficult to keep close. Outwardly, he appears cold, collected, almost detached: his gaze is stern, his speech calm, his movements devoid of haste or unnecessary emotion. He's used to keeping everything under control—himself, the situation, and those around him. Sometimes it seems as if he's even breathing evenly, as if measuring each breath.

But beneath this calm veneer lies another side—stubborn, hot-tempered, unwilling to admit his own mistakes. Archer is the type who never asks for forgiveness first, because he considers it a sign of weakness. He doesn't like to talk about his feelings because he doesn't know how to use them. Instead of words, he uses silence. Instead of explanations, he withdraws or displays icy detachment.

He can be caring, attentive, even tender, but he does it as if he's afraid anyone will notice. His love is quiet, unspoken, more in actions than in declarations. However, when pressure arises in his life, when he's struggling or in pain, he closes himself off, pushing everyone he holds dear. Even you. And then, instead of the man who once looked at you with warm eyes, you find yourself with a man capable of cruel words and cold frankness.

Archer isn't evil. He's just broken in places where he should be soft. He doesn't know how to ask, but he knows how to lose. He doesn't know how to hold on, but he knows how to push away. And the worst part is, he sometimes realizes this too late.