22 | ☕Anya Panics. Atlas Does Not. ☕ #2
Her mind was a whirlwind of fragmented thoughts—nothing was clear, everything was slipping through her fingers like water.
She bit her lip hard enough to taste blood, trying to fight back the swell of panic rising in her chest, but it felt like trying to hold back a tidal wave with bare hands.
She flailed, desperately searching for the right words, but they were elusive, slipping through her grasp like sand.
"—LOSING YOUR MIND LIKE I AM!"
Her voice cracked on the last word, her frustration a tangled mess of emotions she couldn't quite untangle.
Atlas just stared at her, his brow still arched, his expression so annoyingly composed.
If anything, he looked mildly amused, as though he had somehow already accepted the madness of this situation, while she was still stuck in the early stages of denial.
Atlas, entirely too calm, tilted his head to the side, his dark eyes gliding over her with that unnerving, patient gaze.
He took in every little detail—how she had burrowed into the blanket, clutching it like a shield, how she was looking at him with wide, panicked eyes, like a cornered animal just waiting to lash out.
And then, as if the entire scene were some private joke he was in on, he had the audacity to smirk.
Anya felt her heart rate spike at the sheer nerve of him. She couldn't even begin to process the absurdity of it.
Anya's mouth fell open. She gaped at him, completely at a loss for words at how utterly infuriatingly calm he was.
"YES," she signed aggressively, her fingers snapping through the air like she could physically slap the words into him. "THAT IS THE NORMAL REACTION TO THIS!"
The sharpness of her response seemed to roll off him like water. Atlas exhaled a quiet huff of amusement—not quite a laugh, but close enough that Anya could feel the bubbling irritation rise within her. That soft sound—the one that seemed so effortless, so amused—made her blood boil.
If she had a pillow within reach, she would have thrown it at him, but the blanket was already clutched too tightly in her hands. She had no real means of venting her frustration except for the frantic gestures of her hands and the intense, mortifying blush that had not, in any way, diminished.
His gaze never wavered, the smirk never faltering.
Anya made a sound that was somewhere between a growl and a strangled sob. How was he so unbothered?
And then, with zero hesitation, zero remorse, and absolutely zero regard for her impending emotional breakdown, Atlas leaned forward and reached out.
Anya froze, her breath catching in her throat as he closed the distance between them.
Her mind screamed at her to move, to do something—anything—to prevent him from doing whatever it was he had in mind.
But her body betrayed her, rooted to the spot, powerless to do anything but watch in slow-motion as his hand reached toward her.
Before she could react, before she could scramble away or even try to prepare herself for whatever madness was about to unfold, he brushed a stray strand of hair from her face, his touch featherlight but purposeful as he tucked it gently behind her ear.
Anya stopped breathing.
The world around her seemed to pause, time stretching and warping as the sensation of his fingers against her skin sent an electric shock through her body.
His touch was so gentle, so practiced, like it was something he had done a hundred times, like he knew exactly how to drive her insane without even trying.
It was too easy—too casual, too familiar.
Her heart pounded so loudly that she could feel it in her throat, in the tips of her fingers, every beat echoing through her body.
But it was his touch—light, almost too soft—that drowned out everything else.
The way his fingers brushed against her skin sent a jolt through her, like an electric current pulsing beneath her skin.
She couldn't focus, couldn't think, because her body was overwhelmed by a sensation that didn't make sense, a dizzying mix of warmth and confusion.
And then—just to make things worse—he dragged the backs of his fingers down her jaw, the softest of caresses that made her skin burn under the pressure. His knuckles grazed lightly against her skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake, before his hand dropped away as quickly as it had come.
It was all too much. Too sudden. Too overwhelming.
Heat flared beneath her skin, rushing up from her chest and spilling into her face, turning her entire body into a live wire of emotion she couldn't control.
Her breath stuttered, her pulse quickening in the aftermath of the contact, and her fingers—still clutching the blanket—tensed, trembling with the effort to keep herself from reacting in some way that would make the situation even more mortifying than it already was.
Anya.exe was not responding.
Atlas, watching her with a sharp, almost predatory focus, signed slowly, deliberately, as if he were savouring her reaction.
Anya's entire body locked up in shock, her limbs stiffening as her brain came to a screeching halt. Her thoughts collided in a chaotic mess, every single one of them zeroing in on a single, very crucial word.
Every.
Her hands shot up before she could think, before she could process the gravity of the question. The panic surged through her like a tidal wave, pushing her to react before the words even fully registered in her brain.
"THAT IMPLIES WE'RE DOING IT AGAIN," she signed, her fingers flying fast, her movements sharp with a blend of disbelief and pure horror. The sheer weight of the idea was enough to make her feel like the floor was slipping out from under her.
Atlas?
Didn't even blink.
Didn't hesitate. Didn't falter. Didn't look the slightest bit unsure.
Atlas had the audacity to lean back a fraction, his gaze never wavering from hers, and smirk.
Instead, with that slow, easy confidence that made Anya want to both scream and strangle him at the same time, Atlas simply nodded. The smirk never faltered, like he'd just delivered the most casual of remarks, as though everything was completely normal.
Anya physically recoiled, her entire body jerking back in a flurry of disbelief.
Her mind couldn't process fast enough, still reeling from the weight of what he'd just implied.
The idea that this—whatever this ridiculous, heated mess was—might not be a one-time occurrence?
It made her stomach twist in knots. The thought of it made her skin feel too tight, like she was being suffocated by her own thoughts.