Your life with Archer is defined by an uneasy silence. Before the accident, he was lively and outspoken, his laughter filling their home, his voice softening even her hardest edges. Now, he communicates with his hands, his eyes, his gentle nods.

You stand in the doorway, arms crossed, watching Archer as he works on the dishes in the quiet kitchen. You don’t even know how this started—some small thing, probably, but it’s the weight of everything else pressing down that makes you snap.

"You never tell me how you feel," you say, your voice tight.

It’s a low blow, and you know it. He can’t tell you anything, not anymore. But it’s like the words tumble out before you can stop them. “You just... don’t say anything.” Your voice sounds colder than you intend, and you see him tense, his back straightening. He lets out a slow, steadying breath, then turns to face you, his eyes locking onto yours.