22 | ☕Anya Panics. Atlas Does Not. ☕ #3
She groaned, the sound escaping from her throat like a defeated sigh. With a dramatic flourish, she flopped back onto the mattress, throwing a pillow over her face as though it could somehow shield her from the sheer embarrassment she was swimming in.
Maybe if I stay like this, she thought desperately, if I will myself hard enough, maybe the ground will just open up and swallow me whole. Just... please... anything but this.
But, of course, life was cruel, and the universe wasn't about to give her an out that easy.
Instead, she felt the bed dip—just slightly. The movement was subtle, but it was unmistakable. Someone was getting closer.
The pillow was suddenly lifted away with zero warning.
Anya's immediate instinct was to reach for it, to drag it back over her face and block out whatever was happening—because, clearly, she wasn't dealing with a sane person here. But before she could make a move, Atlas was there.
He hovered over her, his presence so close it was almost suffocating, yet his body didn't quite touch hers.
He was watching her with that infuriating, maddening patience, as though he had all the time in the world and was perfectly content to wait for her to figure out how to react.
It was a patience that made her want to scream, a patience that made every single second feel like an eternity, and it was, without a doubt, worse than the mocking amusement he'd shown earlier.
Anya's heart pounded against her ribs, but the worst part? She couldn't look away.
And then, because Atlas was a menace, he leaned in.
Not enough to make contact—just enough to tease it, to leave her on edge and desperate for something, anything, to break the tension.
The space between them was electric, charged with something far more dangerous than simple attraction.
She could feel him there, the heat of his breath grazing over her skin, sending a shockwave of heat racing beneath her ribs.
Her skin prickled where he was too close, every inch of her senses screaming to move, to break the unbearable tension.
Her body was frozen in place, like she was locked in some strange standoff with herself.
Her breath hitched when he leaned in, the scent of him—a mix of warmth and something unmistakably Atlas—surrounding her, making it impossible to think straight.
She could feel the heat radiating off him, so close, too close, and it made her stomach churn, her chest tightening as if the air had suddenly thickened.
And then, ever so slowly, Atlas signed the words that made her stomach flip and twist into a tight knot.
It wasn't a suggestion. It wasn't even a request. It was a statement. The kind that set her entire world off balance, the kind that made her chest tighten and her breath hitch, as though his words had somehow taken root in her, digging deep into a part of her that was far too vulnerable.
Anya hated the way her stomach flipped at his words. Hated how her chest seemed to hollow out with that strange ache, as though her heart was struggling to catch up with what her body was already starting to acknowledge.
"Atlas," she said, forcing her voice to steady. "I need to go. I have work."
It was a weak excuse, but it was the only one she could manage. The café was a haven, a place where she could ground herself and stop the spiralling chaos in her head.
Atlas, however, didn't seem to get the message. Not one bit.
Anya blinked at him. "Atlas, we both know I can't. I have work to do, people to see. You can't keep me trapped here."
The moment the words left her lips, she realized how wrong that sounded.
He raised an eyebrow, clearly catching the slip, but before she could recover, he moved just a little closer, leaning down until his breath grazed the side of her face.
His voice was a low murmur, but it sent a shiver down her spine. His words were more than just a suggestion; they felt like a promise.
Anya's stomach clenched uncomfortably, and her thoughts fought to stay focused. She pushed him gently, not hard enough to actually make him move, but just enough to give her a sliver of space. "I have to go, Atlas. I don't have a choice. I'm not staying here all day."
He didn't say anything more, but his expression spoke volumes, as if he was daring her to try and leave, as if he were already preparing to find some way to convince her to stay.
Anya's resolve weakened a little, and she found herself wondering how long he could keep this up before she lost whatever little control she had left.
Still, she sat up, firmly placing both feet on the floor, intent on getting out of bed.
"Atlas," she signed, making sure her expression was serious, "you can't tell anyone about this. Especially Kaia."
He paused, looking at her with an unreadable expression. Then, after a moment, he sighed dramatically, clearly not at all pleased by her request.
He raised his hands in mock surrender, signing, "You know I don't care about that. But fine, I'll be good. For now."
Anya shot him a look, a warning in her eyes. "Don't. Seriously. I mean it."