Archer pulled his hotel room door open wearing only a pair of sweatpants and a confused look on his face. His hair stuck up at odd angles, and he used the back of his hand to wipe the sleep out of his eyes.

“Mallory?” he asked, confused.

I handed him one of the cups of coffee I’d picked up on the way. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah,” he said, moving away from the door. “Of course.”

I passed him and kissed the top of his head. He chuckled.

The room was bigger than I’d expected and tidier as well. I don’t know why I’d expected clothing to be thrown all over the place—perhaps because I was showing up unannounced—but I should’ve known that Archer would keep everything neatly in its place.

There were a couple of empty suitcases in the corner, otherwise there weren’t many signs of anyone staying here long term.

Archer sat down on the edge of the bed and looked up at me. “What’s up?”

I cocked an eyebrow, looking him over. “Long night?”

“Working.”

“Up late working on a Friday night?”

A tiny smile pulled at his lips. “Mallory, are you trying to ask me if I was out with anyone last night?”

I sipped my coffee and blinked at him.

“Well, I wasn’t,” he said.

“Good. I’d hate to have to hurt someone.”

He laughed. “You? Hurt someone? You’re probably the gentlest person I know. Which I bet is confusing for some people since you’re one of the biggest men I’ve ever met.”

“Big, friendly giant.”

“Exactly.”

“Okay, smartass,” I said. “Put some clothes on. We’re going out.”

I sat on the edge of the bed and watched while Archer quickly showered, brushed his teeth, and threw on some clothes. Every time he passed by in front of me, he’d either put his hand on my arm or smile at me over his shoulder.

By the time we were seated in the cab of my truck driving down the long stretch of highway, both of our coffees were long gone. We had the windows rolled down to enjoy the crisp morning air and the visors pushed back to block some of the sunlight out of our eyes.

Archer picked a radio station playing some kind of pop song that he mouthed the words to. I made fun of him for it, and he shoved my arm, grin spreading across his face.

“So, where are we going?” he asked. “There’s no group today.”

Since Archer had gone to the bereavement group with me a few weeks prior, he’d come with me every time I’d gone since. It was good for him to go and we both knew it. Each time after leaving a group meeting, there was a bit more ease in the air around him.

“Shooting range,” I said.

“What?” he snapped.

“Let me explain, Archer.”

“There’s nothing to explain, Mallory.” His tone was harsh, and there was a bite to his voice that I hadn’t heard very often. He wasn’t one to lose his temper—if he had one at all—but I could tell this was a hot topic. “I can’t shoot. I told you. I wasn’t fucking around or exaggerating. It’s not like I’ll be able to step foot inside the shooting range and suddenly my arm won’t be messed up.”

“Sweetheart,” I said softly. I reached across the seats between us and took his hand in my own. “I know. We’re going so that you can teach me to shoot. That way, we can go together each year. If you want to.”

He stared at me for a few moments, our fingers still entwined. And then he turned toward the passenger side window and stared out at the passing trees and shimmering blue lakes.

There was a slight hitch in his voice when he said, “Yeah. I want to.”

---

“I don’t think I’ve ever touched a gun before,” I said.

“No?” Archer asked. “What’s it feel like?”

I chuckled. “A little freaky, to be honest.”

“Yeah, they aren’t toys, that’s for sure. But if you follow the rules and are always cognizant of the dangers, you’ll be fine.”

We’d walked into the gun range and Archer visibly lightened. He didn’t actually run around like a kid in a candy store, but part of me thought he might’ve wanted to.

We purchased time on a lane from the cashier at the front, as well as a gun rental. When he asked if we’d ever been to a shooting range before, Archer was a yes, and I was definitely a no. So he pointed out where things were, where the range rules were on the back wall from the lanes, and the range officer escorted us inside.

He swiftly but thoroughly went through all the rules with us. Finger off the trigger unless you were firing, never point your firearm at something you don’t want to shoot, make sure the firearm is completely unloaded unless you’re using it. Plus, he gave us a set of earmuffs and protective eyewear that Archer looked like he was born to wear.

All three of us went through the basics together, myself repeating everything the range officer had instructed. When he left, I caught Archer grinning wide at me.

The indoor shooting range was practically empty. There was only one other person here besides us, likely because of how early in the day we were there. Admittedly, I’d planned it that way. I was fairly sure I was going to make an ass of myself and didn’t want too large of an audience.

“Think you got it?” Archer asked.

“Pretty sure I have all the safety parts down. Now, the aiming part, I’m not so sure about.”

“You’ll do fine with a bit of practice.”

“What—you don’t think I’ll be a natural like you?”

He gave me a lopsided smile that wasn’t quite happy. “Maybe not so natural anymore.”

I squeezed his shoulder.

Together we went through the steps again from start to finish. Loading the magazine, proper stance, safety off and on. Archer was a great instructor. Firm but not commanding. He helped me focus on aiming when I thought he could tell how nervous I was.

I looked down range toward the large paper target hanging from the ceiling. And then I put my finger on the trigger and pulled.

My shot clipped the bottom left corner. Still on the paper but not exactly on target. I put the gun down on the bench and turned to see Archer grinning ear to ear.

“You did it!”

I laughed. “I didn’t even hit anything.”

“You hit the paper. You’re doing better than a lot of people their first time.”

“Hm. Think I’ve heard you say that to me before.”

Immediately, redness began covering his cheeks and neck. He chuckled nervously, licked his lips, and glanced away for a moment. When he looked back at me, I was still staring at him.

I wanted to kiss him.

He gently touched my forearm. “Maybe later we’ll see if you’ve still got it.”

I feigned hurt. “Wasn’t that long ago since last time. You don’t remember?”

“It’s always good to be sure. Want to make sure you’re still on target.”

“Wow. That was the lamest joke I’ve ever heard.”

We both laughed. There was excitement in the air and that taut heat of tension.

My next few shots weren’t much better. Archer kept telling me that I was doing everything right and that it took practice. I didn’t mind not being a natural at it. I figured, as long as I was here with him, that was enough.

When we were nearing the hour mark, finally, one of my shots landed on target. I set the gun down on the bench, safety on, turned to face Archer, and grinned.

“Did you see that?”

I don’t think I’d ever seen him smile wider. “Yeah, I saw. See? You’re a natural. What’d I tell you, Mallory?”

“I can’t believe I finally hit the damn thing!”

“I knew you would.”

“I thought I never would. I wanted to come in here and land a bull’s eye first shot and completely impress you.”

He laughed. “You wouldn’t have to do that to impress me. You’ve already impressed me by coming here. Not that you have to know how to shoot a gun—or want to—to impress me. It’s just… you made this effort. For me.”

“Of course.” I took a step closer to him. “I’d do anything for you.”

“Anything?” he asked a little softer.

“Yes, Archer. Anything.” I stood in front of him, peering down into his eyes.

He nodded, almost to himself. “I know.”

I went back to the lane and fired off the last of our bullets. I took my time between each shot, reminding myself of the tips Archer had told me when it came to aiming and firing. I hit the target a few more times and was admittedly pretty proud that I’d made some progress.

When I was finished, I made sure the safety was on, unloaded the gun, making sure there were no bullets in the chamber or the magazine, and set it down on the bench.

Immediately, arms wrapped around me and a forehead pressed in between my shoulder blades. I put my palms on the tops of his hands and stood there for a moment, wondering how the hell I’d gotten so lucky.

“Thank you,” he whispered into the fabric of my shirt.

I didn’t say anything, just ran my thumb against the back of his hand. In that touch, I hoped he knew how sorry I was for the way things had happened between us and how glad I was he was here now. I hoped he knew I’d do anything for him. I hoped he knew he was beautiful and imperfect and how desperately I wanted—needed—him to be happy.