22 | ☕Anya Panics. Atlas Does Not. ☕
Anya woke up too warm.
Which was strange.
She liked to sleep wrapped in blankets, sure—bundled up in layers of soft, comforting warmth that helped her drift off without a care. But this... this was different. There was a distinct difference between the usual embrace of fabric and the solid, radiating heat of something else. Something alive.
Her brain, still sluggish and foggy from sleep, struggled to make sense of it. Had she forgotten to turn down the heat last night? No, that wasn't right. The warmth wasn't coming from the air around her—it was pressed against her.
The realization hit her like a splash of cold water.
There was someone in bed with her.
There was a slow, steady rise and fall beneath her cheek.
A rhythm—thump, thump, thump—beating against her ear, deep and steady, like the grounding pulse of a drum.
It was the kind of sound that anchored you, that brought you back to a sense of reality even when everything else felt hazy.
But it wasn't just any rhythm—it was too alive, too real.
The thrum was coming from somewhere close, pressing against her in a way that was both unfamiliar and... unsettling.
Her mind, still caught between sleep and wakefulness, tried to dismiss it.
Maybe it was the fan or the house settling—some trick her tired senses were playing.
But then there was an arm. A strong, heavy arm draped across her waist, pulling her closer to a solid warmth that wasn't just the air in the room.
It was human—solid, real—and as she shifted slightly, she felt the fingers at the dip of her spine, resting there as if they belonged, as if they were meant to be there.
The weight of it, the possessive strength, was unmistakable.
And then, just as her thoughts began to stir into something resembling clarity, there was a breath. Slow. Deep. The exhale brushed against the crown of her head, warm and steady, almost like a whisper against her skin. It sent a shiver down her spine, one she couldn't shake off.
Her entire body tensed, every muscle stiffening as if locked in place.
Her breath hitched, a strangled gasp rising in her throat, but she couldn't seem to make any noise.
Her eyes snapped open, wide with panic, her heart hammering in her chest.
The weight of the situation—Atlas, the bed, the chaos of the night before—hit her like a freight train, and she couldn't stop the rush of heat flooding her face, turning her cheeks an unbearable shade of red
Oh. Oh no.
Memories flooded in, each one crashing through her mind like waves breaking on jagged rocks. The name hit her first—Atlas.
His presence, his hands—steady, careful, yet devastating in their intensity.
She remembered the way he touched her, not with haste, but with a purpose.
His fingers had a quiet confidence to them, moving over her skin like they had all the time in the world, but never hesitating, never faltering.
And then, his mouth—pressing against hers with a slowness that felt deliberate, as though he was trying to memorize every moment, every detail.
Like she was something he'd been waiting for, something worth savouring in a way that made her heart ache in the most unexpected of ways.
Her own hands moved without thought, dragging him closer, pulling him down to her as if she couldn't get enough, as if every touch made her crave more.
She remembered the way she let herself give in, surrendering in a way that was both foreign and strangely liberating.
The boundaries between them blurred until there was nothing left but the heat, the need, the undeniable pull that had drawn them together.
And then there was the way they didn't stop.
How neither of them hesitated, how every moment seemed to melt into the next, each kiss, each touch, each whisper of breath between them more urgent than the last.
They fit together too easily—too naturally—as though they were always meant to be in that moment. Like something inevitable.
And yet, the worst part of it all?
She didn't regret a single second of it.
Anya's heart slammed against her ribs, each beat a violent reminder that her world had just been flipped upside down.
This isn't happening.
Her breath came in shallow gasps, her fingers trembling as they gripped the blanket, the fabric slipping through her sweaty palms.
A tight knot twisted in her stomach, and every thought she tried to grab at slipped away, too fast, like trying to catch smoke.
Her pulse thudded in her throat, each beat louder than the last.
but it was like trying to hold onto water. Everything felt slippery, out of reach.
She could feel his presence before she even opened her eyes—the heat of his body pressing against hers, a steady warmth that seemed to seep into her skin.
The weight of his arm draped over her waist was solid, unyielding, and it anchored her to the moment, to the memory of everything that had happened.
Her breath caught in her throat as the memory hit her like a wave, each image crashing over her—his touch, his breath, the way he had made her feel alive in ways she couldn't begin to explain.
Her breath came too fast, too sharp, the air around her suddenly thick and suffocating.
Her body screamed at her to move, to flee, to do anything to break the tension, to escape the overwhelming heat that clung to her skin.
The panic curled in her gut like a tight knot, pulling her into action before her brain could catch up.
She had no plan. No sense of what to do, other than the raw, animalistic urge to act.
Her body reacted before her mind could catch up.
She slammed her hand against his chest, the motion wild and frantic, pushing him away with a force that surprised even her.
The bed shifted beneath her as he was shoved back, the sudden movement sending a jolt of panic through her.
She barely registered the thud of his body hitting the floor, her own heart racing faster, like it was trying to escape her chest.
The moment her hands connected with his solid frame, there was a weighty shift in the air, like the room itself held its breath.
Then came the thud—thump—the sound of a body hitting the floor with a force that left no room for doubt.
Anya's pulse raced even faster, and she stared wide-eyed at the empty space next to her, as if trying to convince herself that what she had just done hadn't actually happened.
For a moment, the room was deafeningly silent.
No movement. No sound. Just the hum of her thoughts, spiralling in every direction, searching for a reason, a justification for what had just unfolded.
Her chest heaved with the force of each breath, but the silence—that silence—was more oppressive than anything she had ever felt.
And then, from the floor, came the sound that shattered the stillness. A long, exasperated sigh.
Anya barely had time to process before a hand appeared over the edge of the mattress, followed by broad shoulders, and then—that face.
Atlas, somehow looking completely unbothered, propped himself up on one elbow, effortlessly pushing himself up to peek at her.
His expression was a perfect mix of amusement and confusion, like he had no idea why she was acting so strange.
His features were too sharp, too striking, and that damn smirk played on his lips like he was in on a joke that she wasn't.
He stared at her, cocking his head to the side, like she was the one who had lost her mind.
Anya felt like she was going to explode.
Her breath was coming too fast, too shallow, and her hands were trembling so violently that she had to clench them into fists to stop them from shaking.
Her chest felt tight, like a vice was squeezing around her ribs, and her pulse raced in her throat, each beat a reminder of just how out of control she felt.
Every time she tried to speak, the words caught in her throat, strangled by the ridiculous, overwhelming embarrassment that gnawed at her insides.
Without thinking, her hands shot up to the blanket, yanking it up over her chest as if the fabric could somehow protect her from the reality of the situation.
It was a futile gesture—she knew it, and yet, it felt like the only thing she could do to shield herself from his gaze.
To hide her vulnerability. To make it all go away, even though it wasn't working.
Her skin seemed to burn under his gaze, as though every secret she'd ever kept was now laid bare.
She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to create some barrier between them, but the feeling of being seen, truly seen, made her stomach twist with an unfamiliar discomfort.
Every breath felt shallow, like the air was too thin, too cold.
The tension in her body was unbearable, every movement feeling like it was somehow wrong.
She was doing everything she could to avoid looking at him, to avoid meeting his eyes.
"WE DIDN'T JUST DO THAT," Anya signed, her eyes wide with disbelief, her fingers sharp and erratic in their frantic motions. Her mind was still reeling, the weight of the situation too overwhelming to process. "THAT DIDN'T HAPPEN."
Atlas blinked at her. His expression remained unreadable, and for a moment, she wondered if he'd even understood the words. But then, in the slow, deliberate way he had of drawing things out just to irritate her, he raised a single brow—like he was actually considering her words.
Anya's chest tightened. No. No, this couldn't be happening. This couldn't be real.
After a beat, Atlas signed back, completely unfazed:
The sheer nonchalance of it hit her like a freight train. Anya made a noise.
A terrible, strangled, dying-animal noise—half of frustration, half of panic, all of pure, unfiltered embarrassment. She could feel her face burn hotter than she ever thought possible.
"Atlas!" she hissed, her voice sharp as she pointed an accusing finger at him, her movements wild and uncoordinated."You're supposed to be in shock! You're supposed to be—be—"
Her hands trembled so badly that she clasped them together, pressing her nails into her palms to stop the shaking.
Her breathing came in shallow bursts, each inhale too quick, too ragged.