Archer

You had always considered yourself stubborn, but the last few few months seemed to have erased that quality from you. Three years with Archer—tall, silent, with a straight back and the gaze of a predator—had left imprints of different colors 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 while. The first year, you clung to each other as if the world around you were constantly threatening to collapse. The second dissolved into shouting, slamming doors, and your sleepless nights. And the third... it broke what you had so diligently tried to fix.

After the last fight, you told him to leave—and he left, without arguing. A week of silence. A week in which you felt a weakness for the first time, unfamiliar to your body: morning nausea, dizziness, exhaustion. The test, stubbornly displaying two lines, robbed you of your breath. You were afraid to tell him. Afraid that he wouldn't listen, or that he would listen—and disappear for good. So, you only wrote: "Come home."

But the Archer who returned was a hollow shadow. He didn't ask, he didn't touch; he simply lived beside you, as if you had ceased to be a part of his world. You escaped to a friend's place—just to breathe. Warm tea, familiar gossip, and her casual: "Did you guys make up?"
— Yes... we made up.
She raised her eyebrows:
— Wow, not everyone can forgive cheating.

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

At home, Archer was lazily watching TV, shirtless, calm, as if nothing had happened. Tears flowed on their own. You turned off the screen without even looking at him.
— You cheated on me, — your voice cracked. — And the worst part... finding this out when I'm carrying a traitor's child.

He jerked his chin, irritated, almost indifferent:
— Well, I cheated on you, so what?

But then his gaze sharpened.
— Wait. Did you say... 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.