9 | ☕ Is Atlas a Vampire? ☕
Today Was the Day
Anya had decided—today was the day.
She wasn't going to keep pretending. Wasn't going to keep brushing off the way Atlas Valtieri's presence had become an unshakable constant in her life, like the steady tick of a clock or the way dawn always followed night.
She had questions—too many questions—and damn it, she was going to get some answers.
Because for the past few days, Atlas had been coming to the café with an almost eerie precision.
Not just as some ordinary customer stopping by for a caffeine fix.
Not even as a man who just happened to favour their coffee over the countless overpriced espresso bars in the city. No, it was deliberate.
Always at the same time.
Always in the same seat.
And always with that stare.
The kind that felt too deep, too sharp—like he wasn't just looking at her but reading her. Like she was a puzzle, a riddle he had every intention of solving.
At first, she had tried to ignore it.
Tried to pretend that the way he watched her wasn't affecting her in ways she didn't want to name.
Tried to convince herself that the prickle of awareness running down her spine whenever he entered the café was just her imagination, a trick of her overactive mind playing games with her senses.
It was just a glance, she told herself. Just a fleeting moment that couldn't possibly mean anything.
She could easily dismiss it, just like she had dismissed countless other men who had tried to make their presence known.
But with Atlas Valtieri, it was different.
She told herself it was nothing—nothing more than a passing curiosity, a brief moment of interest.
After all, he was just another customer.
The kind who always ordered the same dark roast coffee, his gaze lingering for a second longer than necessary, but never quite crossing the line into something more.
But with every passing day, his presence began to linger in her mind long after he had left.
His intense, unwavering gaze would stay with her, like an imprint on her consciousness, pulling at the edges of her thoughts.
It wasn't just his eyes, though. It was the way he moved, the way he commanded space without saying a word.
There was something magnetic about him, something dangerous in the way he seemed to observe her, as though he could see through her carefully constructed walls.
It was as if, with each glance, he was slowly peeling away the layers she had spent years building.
No one else had ever made her feel this exposed, this aware of every shift in the air around her.
But she kept telling herself that it was just a phase, that it was all in her head. She could ignore him, just like she had ignored the others, and maybe, just maybe, the odd sensation that came with his gaze would fade with time.
But it didn't.
Because Atlas Valtieri wasn't the kind of man you ignored.
The moment he stepped into a room, everything changed.
It was as if the very atmosphere bent and adjusted itself around him.
Conversations would stutter to a halt, the music seemed to fade into the background, and for a few brief moments, the world outside the café didn't exist.
It was just him, and his presence that had the power to draw everything toward him.
He didn't have to do anything—his mere existence commanded attention.
And somehow, in that small, crowded café, where everything was supposed to feel familiar and comforting, he became the centre of everything.
It didn't matter that he never asked for it. Atlas Valtieri didn't have to try. He simply was. And she was helpless to resist being drawn into his orbit.
Every interaction with him was precise, measured, and brief. He would place his order with a flick of his fingers, his movements smooth, almost too elegant. If he had thoughts—opinions, emotions—he kept them locked behind an impenetrable wall of silence.
A man made of secrets.
And Anya?
She was dying to crack him open.
She had so many questions.
Why this café? Why her? It had been weeks—no, months—and yet, he still came every single day at the same time, settled into the same seat by the window, and watched her with that same unreadable gaze.
There was a quiet intensity in the way he observed her, as if he were cataloguing every movement, every flicker of emotion that crossed her face.
It wasn't just curiosity, not in the way a person might watch someone else out of simple interest.
No, with Atlas, it felt like a study—an experiment—like she was the subject of something far more complicated than she could even begin to fathom.
And why—why—did it feel like she was being drawn to him just as much as he was drawn to her?
It was maddening. Every time their eyes met across the room, the magnetic pull between them was undeniable.
There was no denying it, no convincing herself otherwise.
Whether she liked it or not, a part of her wanted to know what Atlas Valtieri was thinking, wanted to understand what had brought him into her orbit in the first place.
Maybe he was just another passing stranger, another momentary blip in the ordinary rhythm of her life.
But deep down, she knew it was something more.
The question was, did she dare to let herself find out?
She didn't like mysteries.
She loved them.
And Atlas Valtieri?
He was the most dangerous one yet.
The moment the café doors swung open, the world seemed to still.
Not in the poetic way—but in the real, tangible sense.
Conversations faltered, voices dimmed, the clatter of cups and silverware became an afterthought as all eyes flickered toward the man stepping inside.
It wasn't something as simple as his presence—no, Atlas Valtieri walked in like a storm rolling through, a force of nature both silent and undeniable.
It was an instinctive reaction.
Customers shifted without realizing they were moving, some straightening in their seats, others lowering their voices as if suddenly aware that this was a man who did not belong in casual spaces.
His very entrance was like a subtle command, as though the air around him adjusted to fit the weight of his being.
Even the music playing softly in the background seemed to dull, like the sound itself had been hushed in his presence.
His steps, calculated and deliberate, cut through the space with an almost preternatural grace, and yet, there was a weight to them, a promise of something deeper, something darker.
It wasn't the kind of power that had to be flaunted—it was inherent, built into every fibre of his being.
There was no need to raise his voice, no need to make demands.
The room simply bent to him. He didn't have to try.
And yet, it wasn't fear that gripped the café's patrons, though there was certainly a healthy dose of wariness in the air.
It was reverence, the quiet acknowledgment that this was a man who stood apart from the rest.
A man who moved through the world as though he had no equal.
He wasn't just another customer; he was something more—something that could not be easily defined.
Even Anya felt it.
It was as if time itself paused for just a fraction of a second when he entered, and she, like everyone else, was bound by the invisible thread that tied them all to him.
She hated that she noticed it, hated how her heartbeat seemed to skip whenever he walked in, how her eyes always instinctively found his even when she tried to look away.
There was a magnetic pull to him that she couldn't deny, one that had her heart racing despite her best efforts to remain unaffected.
He had that effect on a room.
A quiet, undeniable dominance that left no room for anything else. The moment he crossed the threshold, everything shifted. The café was no longer just a place for coffee or idle chatter. It became his domain, and everyone within it knew it.
And he didn't even have to say a word.
Atlas Valtieri never did.
He moved with that lethal kind of grace, the kind that didn't belong in a café, in a place filled with warm scents and soft lighting. Dressed in his usual all-black ensemble, he was the stark contrast to the cosy atmosphere, an out-of-place shadow in a space filled with light.
Dressed in his usual all-black ensemble, he was a walking contradiction, a figure crafted to command attention without ever needing to try.
His suit—immaculate, expensive, sharp—clung to his broad frame with precision, tailored to perfection, the dark fabric hugging the strength hidden beneath his poised exterior.
Every line of the suit, from the crisp shoulders to the sharp creases in his trousers, was a testament to control.
Even the fabric seemed to whisper of wealth, of power, of a man who had the world at his feet.
Even his tie, neatly knotted and rigid, felt like a symbol of restraint, a deliberate weapon of control.
It wasn't just a fashion choice—it was a statement, a reminder that nothing about him was left to chance.
Every inch of him was carefully measured, calculated, a man who did not allow for disorder, not in his appearance, not in his life, not in his presence.
Every step he took seemed to bring with it a deliberate kind of authority, as if the world itself bent slightly under the weight of his every movement.
And yet—
His eyes found her immediately.
Not the menu.
Not the line of customers.
Not even the empty seat he always chose.
Her.
There was no hesitation, no flicker of interest in anything else.
His gaze swept through the room, and in that brief moment, everything else seemed to vanish, as though the world paused to make way for him.
It wasn't the typical look of a man scanning his surroundings, assessing his options—it was intentional.
The kind of gaze that knew exactly where it was going, and nothing else mattered.
It was direct, that quiet, unnerving intensity that he carried like an unshakable force.
The weight of it settled over her like a shroud, as if the very air around her shifted with the pressure of his focus.
His eyes were sharp—like two cold, polished stones, unwavering and piercing.