20 | ☕Atlass Invasion ☕ #2
Anya forced herself to exhale, feeling the pressure in her chest ease ever so slightly. She rubbed a hand down her face, trying to clear the fog of frustration clouding her thoughts. Focus. Focus, Anya.
"You cannot keep doing this, Atlas," she said, her voice a little shakier than she'd intended. It wasn't fair. It wasn't normal. And yet, here he was again, making himself at home like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He arched a brow, that signature look of feigned innocence creeping across his face. His fingers moved, the motions fluid, as if he had all the time in the world to make her lose her mind one hand gesture at a time.
Anya's patience finally snapped. She threw her hands in the air, gesturing wildly at him, at the food, at the entire ridiculous scene unfolding in her kitchen.
She felt like a caricature of herself—exaggerated, over-the-top, probably about five seconds from losing it completely.
"This!" she said, as if that single word could encapsulate the chaos of everything he was.
"Showing up unannounced! Acting like you own my time! Making this—whatever this is—a habit!"
He studied her for a long, excruciating moment, his gaze unreadable, like he was deciding whether this moment would make a good memory for later. He glanced briefly at the takeout containers, then met her eyes again, as though he were about to deliver the punchline to a joke that only he knew.
And then—then—he lifted his hands again, casual, deliberate, like he was about to speak the gospel truth.
Anya gasped.
It was almost like air knocked out of her chest. She took an instinctive step forward, her voice rising in a mix of disbelief and frustration. "Atlas!" she exclaimed, her hands thrown out in a gesture of pure exasperation, as if she could physically express the absurdity of the situation.
His smirk remained lazy and insufferable as he signed, "You'll get used to it."
Oh. Oh.
Anya's blood boiled. Heat rising to her cheeks, her heart thudding loudly in her chest, the urge to do something extremely destructive creeping up on her like a slow, dangerous wave. She wanted to throw something—anything—just to see that smug expression wiped off his face.
Her hands flexed at her sides, fingers twitching, desperate for an object to hurl. She could imagine it now: a mug, a book, maybe a stapler? Something solid enough to put a dent in his perfect, infuriating demeanour.
"You are—" She inhaled sharply, forcing herself to calm down before she actually lost it. She grabbed the edge of the chair next to her, clutching it like a lifeline, trying to ground herself in the reality that there were laws against assaulting people with office supplies.
"You are ridiculous," she finally said, her voice strained but oddly controlled, even though every inch of her body was screaming to take a swing at him.
Anya stared at him, her brain trying to make sense of the absurdity of it all.
Here she was, standing in her own kitchen, ready to lose her mind, and he was acting like this was just another Tuesday for him.
How did he do that? How did he remain so...
calm? It was like he had a magical ability to make her feel like the crazy one, even though she was the one who had every right to be angry.
"By who?!" she demanded, her voice higher than she intended. "The ghost of my patience?!"
Atlas shrugged, his nonchalance maddening, lifting a dumpling from the container with the composure that should be illegal.
"ATLAS!" she roared, her frustration reaching a boiling point. It was like he was trying to break her, little by little, and with each quiet, infuriatingly calm response, he was succeeding.
He just laughed. A silent laugh. A sharp exhale through his nose, his shoulders shaking slightly.
It was the laugh that made her feel like she was the punchline of a joke she hadn't been briefed on.
And worse—he was enjoying it. He was enjoying watching her flounder, watching her lose control, like some kind of twisted spectator sport.
She took in a shaky breath, barely holding on to the last thread of her sanity. "Fine," she ground out, her voice a razor edge. "If you're so determined to invade my night, then at least tell me—what do you even want?"
Atlas popped a dumpling into his mouth like he was savouring a fine meal at some overpriced restaurant. He chewed slowly, methodically, completely unbothered by her escalating temper.
Then, after swallowing, he met her gaze dead-on. His eyes locked with hers, unwavering, like he was about to drop a bomb.
And then, with no warning whatsoever, he signed,
Anya's brain short-circuited. It was like the world went on pause. Her heart stopped. Her mind couldn't even process the words. Her mouth opened—but nothing came out. Nothing. She felt like she was stuck in some kind of loop, a broken record replaying those three words over and over.
Atlas blinked, his expression patient—as if he were explaining something simple, something obvious, as if what he had just said wasn't completely life-ruining.
"Wh—what?" she croaked, her voice hoarse and barely there.