7 | ☕️ Expresso Yourself, Atlas ☕️
It had been a week since Anya's near-death encounter with Atlas, and against all odds, she was still alive.
Even more baffling was the fact that he kept coming back.
Every morning, like clockwork, without fail, he walked through the door at exactly 8 AM.
She never had to check the clock; his arrival had become such a routine that her body seemed to recognize it before her mind even caught up.
He didn't rush or make any effort to blend in.
He entered with the same deliberate slowness, as though he were testing the atmosphere, claiming it for his own.
His presence was so forceful it was as though the café itself bent in submission.
The low hum of conversation would pause for a fraction of a second, as if the room collectively held its breath, aware that Atlas had arrived.
And, as always, there was no sign of anyone daring to challenge him.
Anya had started to wonder—though she would never admit it out loud—if Atlas had a soft spot for her.
A ridiculous thought, she quickly corrected herself.
After all, the man was practically carved out of stone, with all the warmth of an ice sculpture.
He moved with an eerie precision, his features chiseled and unreadable, a stoic mask that betrayed no trace of emotion.
She couldn't imagine him sparing a thought for anyone, least of all her.
And yet, here he was again, standing in the doorway as if the café were an extension of his domain.
There was an unsettling consistency to his routine, as though he expected things to remain just the same—unflinching, unmoving, and unwavering.
And yet, despite all of that, her gaze lingered on him every morning as he entered. She couldn't help it. There was something magnetic about him, something that pulled her in despite the warnings flashing through her mind.
He was just standing there now, waiting for the usual momentary silence to fade, but for once, something felt off.
Almost imperceptibly, he scanned the room—a subtle shift in his posture, his eyes flicking past the patrons seated at tables and the baristas who gave him quick, nervous glances.
But he wasn't looking for anyone in particular.
No, his focus seemed to settle on the one person he hadn't acknowledged yet.
Her.
It was brief, almost a flicker. But it was enough to make her pulse skip.
"Morning, Atlas!" Anya greeted him with her usual enthusiasm, her voice a cheerful contrast to the heavy silence he always brought with him.
She flashed him a bright, almost teasing smile, the kind that never quite reached her eyes when it was him—always him.
"Ready to start your day with some caffeine-fuelled chaos?"
she added with a hint of mischief, her words a playful jab at the monotony of his daily ritual.
But Atlas, as always, said nothing. He never did.
His silence was as consistent as his presence, a quiet wall that Anya had long since stopped trying to break down.
Instead, his gaze fixed on her—unwavering, intense, and impossibly unreadable.
His eyes, dark and piercing, were like a shadowy abyss that seemed to draw everything into them but never revealed a thing.
She couldn't tell if he was studying her, or if he simply didn't care enough to look anywhere else.
Either way, it felt like an eternity in the few seconds it lasted.
Unbothered, Anya moved with practiced ease.
She wasn't about to let the man's perpetual coldness ruin her mood or throw off her routine.
She had learned long ago to ignore the tension in the air whenever he walked in, to dismiss the slight prickle of unease that followed him like a dark cloud.
She was already reaching for the sleek metal carafe of freshly brewed coffee, her hands steady as she prepared his usual order.
"Regular, right?" she asked, not really expecting a response.
She could almost make it in her sleep by now, having made the exact same drink for him at least a dozen times over the past week.
Black, no sugar, no milk—nothing to soften the bitter edge.
It was almost as if he didn't need anything to mask the sharpness of life, much like himself.
Anya couldn't help but think how well his drink reflected him: harsh, blunt, and devoid of anything unnecessary.
The sound of the espresso machine's hiss and the faint clink of ceramic mugs filled the space between them, but still, Atlas didn't speak.
Not a word. And yet, she could feel the weight of his gaze on her, sharp and relentless, like a challenge.
It wasn't the first time she'd felt it, but today, for some reason, it felt different—more pressing, more demanding.
She poured the coffee into the mug with a practiced hand, the routine almost comforting.
"Here you go," she said, sliding the mug across the counter with a grin that didn't quite reach her eyes.
There was something in the air, something heavy and taut, but she didn't let it show.
She had learned a long time ago not to expect anything more than silence from him.
So why did it feel like she was waiting for something?
Before Atlas could acknowledge her, the door chimed again, the soft, melodic sound cutting through the thick silence that hung between them.
Another customer had entered the café—a tall, well-dressed man with an easy smile and a confident stride.
His presence was the polar opposite of Atlas's, warm and open, his demeanour inviting rather than intimidating.
Anya's attention immediately shifted to the newcomer without a second thought. Her routine was unshakeable, and she never let one customer interfere with her focus on the next. "Hi there!" she greeted him with a bright smile, her voice upbeat as always. "What can I get for you?"
The man returned her smile, his eyes twinkling with friendliness. "I'll have a cappuccino and a croissant, please," he said, his tone easy and relaxed, as though he was speaking to a long-time friend rather than a stranger behind a counter.
"Got it!" Anya chirped, nodding enthusiastically.
She didn't miss a beat, immediately turning to prepare his order.
Her hands moved swiftly, her mind already calculating the perfect amount of foam for the cappuccino and the ideal placement of the croissant on the plate.
She hummed absently, the familiar rhythm of her work lulling her into a sense of calm.
But just as her attention was fully on the task at hand, she was completely oblivious to the way Atlas's gaze had darkened the moment the man stepped closer.
It was subtle—an imperceptible narrowing of his eyes, a slight stiffening in his posture—but it was there, and it was unmistakable.
The air around them seemed to shift, though Anya remained blissfully unaware, wrapped up in her cheerful little bubble.
As she finished preparing the order, she slid the cappuccino and croissant across the counter with a smile. "Here you go! One cappuccino, one croissant. Hope it makes your day a little brighter."
The man chuckled, a warm, easy sound that filled the space between them.
He leaned against the counter just slightly, his posture casual, as though he was enjoying the moment more than simply receiving his coffee.
"You know," he began, his tone light, "I've been coming here for weeks, but you're the only one who seems to make my coffee just right. You must have a real knack for this."
Anya's cheeks flushed at the compliment, and she beamed at him, her eyes lighting up. "Oh, you know! I'm just doing my best. Plus, I'm really good at reading people. I think it's my superpower." She chuckled softly at her own joke, unaware of the quiet tension growing in the space around her.
The man smirked, clearly amused by her response. "Glad I finally got the chance to introduce myself," he said, his voice warm and friendly. "I'm Chris."
"Nice to meet you, Chris! I'm Anya," she replied cheerfully, her voice bubbly and sincere, her focus entirely on him. She had no idea that, with each word, the subtle, nearly imperceptible shift in the room had become something more palpable.
Her eyes never strayed far from Chris, and she didn't notice how the temperature in the room seemed to dip ever so slightly. She didn't notice Atlas, still standing there like a looming shadow in the doorway, his eyes not on the customer at all—but fixed firmly on her.
Unaware of the rising tension, Anya continued to smile brightly, completely absorbed in the moment. But behind her, the unspoken battle of attention was beginning to take shape.
It wasn't until Anya turned back to Atlas that she noticed something...
off. A sudden shift in the atmosphere. His jaw was tight, the muscles in his face rigid with barely contained tension.
His fingers, long and strong, were tapping against the counter in a slow, deliberate rhythm that seemed almost too calculated.
His eyes weren't on her, not anymore. They were locked on Chris, sharp and assessing, like a predator sizing up an uninvited intruder.
Anya's heart skipped a beat as the realization hit her, cold and sudden.
Oh.
Oh no.
The weight of Atlas's stare pressed down on her like an invisible force, and her pulse quickened in response.
She had seen that look before—the dangerous, possessive gleam in his eyes—but never like this.
Never directed at someone else. His expression was stone-cold, unreadable, but the tension in the air was undeniable.
He was sizing up Chris, and from the way his fingers clenched, it was clear that he wasn't just irritated—he was jealous.
Kaia, who had been wiping down tables nearby, had already sensed disaster approaching.
The tension was so thick now, it felt like the room was holding its breath.
Kaia froze, her eyes darting between Anya and Atlas, her expression a mix of concern and something else—something like quiet dread.
She looked like a spectator at a bomb defusal, knowing exactly how bad things could get but powerless to stop it.
When Chris spoke again, Kaia visibly cringed, her shoulders tensing.