35 | ☕As Anya Heals, Kaia Reveals ☕
The first few days after her rescue blurred together, a haze of exhaustion and fragile relief.
Anya's body was safe—patched up, cared for—but her mind was trapped in a place that refused to let her go.
The weight of what had happened clung to her like an unseen chain, heavy and suffocating.
Every little sound sent a jolt of panic through her, her heart hammering before she even realized why.
A door creaking open, footsteps behind her, even the soft rustle of fabric—it all made her breath hitch, her muscles coil with the instinct to run.
She'd flinch at shadows that weren't there, at movement flickering at the edge of her vision. Sleep was no refuge.
The moment she closed her eyes, she was back in that dark, cold room.
The helplessness, the sharp sting of the blade against her skin, the suffocating fear—it played on an endless loop in her mind.
She'd wake up gasping, drenched in sweat, the ghost of her captor's voice whispering in her ears.
Some nights, she barely slept at all, too afraid of the nightmares waiting for her.
Anya tried to mask it. She smiled when she was supposed to, laughed at the right moments, answered in clipped reassurances when asked if she was okay.
She told herself she was fine—if she said it enough times, maybe it would be true.
But Atlas saw through her. He saw the way her gaze drifted, the way her fingers unconsciously traced the fading cuts on her skin, the way she avoided the mirror as if afraid of what she'd see.
He noticed how her smiles were just a little too forced, how her laughter never quite reached her eyes.
He didn't push. He didn't force her to talk. But he stayed.
Whether it was sitting beside her in silence, his presence a quiet reminder that she wasn't alone, or gently guiding her back to reality when she got lost in the past, Atlas was always there. He knew she needed time. And however long it took, he wasn't going to let her fight this battle alone.
It was late one evening, and Anya sat at the kitchen counter of his penthouse, stirring her tea absentmindedly.
Atlas entered the room quietly, his eyes immediately going to her.
The contrast between the confident, cheerful woman he knew and the one sitting before him—so fragile, so distant—was almost unbearable.
He crossed the room in two strides, his hand gently resting on her shoulder.
Anya didn't startle at his touch, but she tensed, just for a second, before forcing herself to relax. She kept her eyes fixed on the swirling liquid in her cup, the steam curling into the air like a ghost of a thought she couldn't quite grasp. The tea had long gone cold, but she hadn't taken a sip.
Atlas didn't need words to know where her mind was. He could see it in the way her fingers trembled ever so slightly, the way her shoulders curled inward, as if trying to make herself smaller. It was the same look she got when she thought no one was watching—when she let the mask slip.
His grip on her shoulder tightened, just enough to remind her he was there. A silent reassurance.
She let out a slow breath. "I should be fine by now," she murmured, her voice quiet, almost ashamed. "It's been days. I should be... better."
Atlas shook his head and, without hesitation, signed, "Healing doesn't work like that."
She finally looked up at him, her tired eyes searching his face. "Then how does it work?" she asked, a bitter edge to her tone. "Because I feel stuck. Like I'm still there."
His jaw tightened, a flicker of something dark passing through his eyes. He hated this. Hated that he couldn't erase what had been done to her. Hated that she still felt trapped, even here, in his home, where she was supposed to be safe.
Atlas took the cup from her hands, setting it aside before kneeling in front of her.
He didn't sign anything at first, just let her see him, let her feel his presence anchoring her.
Then, with slow, deliberate movements, he signed, "You're not there anymore. You're here. With me. And I'm not going anywhere."
Anya swallowed hard, her throat tight with emotion.
She clenched her fists in her lap, her nails digging into her palms as if the pain would ground her.
But then—Atlas reached for her hands, prying them open with gentle insistence.
His touch was warm, steady. She let out a shuddering breath, her fingers uncurling as he wrapped his hands around hers.
She let him take her hands in his, his warmth bleeding into her, anchoring her to the moment. She didn't pull away.
Instead, she gripped him back.
"I feel broken," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. The words tasted bitter on her tongue, raw in a way that made her feel exposed. "Like I'll never be normal again."
Atlas's expression darkened, a flicker of something sharp and protective flashing in his eyes. His jaw tensed, but his hands never wavered. He exhaled slowly, his gaze locked onto hers as he lifted one hand and signed, "You're not broken."
She let out a hollow laugh, shaking her head. "You don't have to say that."
"I don't say things I don't mean." His movements were slow but deliberate, as if he needed her to believe every word. "Hehurt you, but he didn't break you. You're still here. Still fighting."
Her vision blurred, tears burning at the edges of her eyes. She wanted to believe him. She really did. But every time she closed her eyes, she saw that dark room, felt the ropes cutting into her wrists, heard the captor's voice echoing in her mind.
"Then why does it feel like they did?" she whispered, her voice cracking.
Atlas didn't answer right away. Instead, he reached up, hesitating for only a fraction of a second before his palm cupped her cheek.
His thumb traced the faint scars left behind, the ones that hadn't quite faded yet.
His touch was impossibly gentle, as if he thought she might break if he pressed too hard.
"Because healing is painful." He signed with his free hand, his fingers moving carefully, like he was choosing each word with precision. "And it takes time. But you're not alone in this. I won't let you be."
A single tear slipped down her cheek. She didn't wipe it away. She didn't even look away.
Then, without warning, the sharp chime of the doorbell split through the calm, its suddenness jolting them both from their shared silence.
Anya's head snapped up, eyes wide with surprise, while Atlas exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening slightly around the ceramic cup as they both turned toward the door.
Atlas wasn't expecting anyone, and the unexpected chime unsettled the quiet moment he and Anya had been sharing.
His fingers drummed against the table for a brief second before he pushed himself up.
Across from him, Anya remained still, her only reaction a slight tightening of her grip around the warm mug in her hands.
Her expression remained neutral, but he noticed the way her eyes lingered on the door, as if weighing whether to ask who it might be.
She didn't. Instead, she simply watched as he made his way across the room.
Atlas strode toward the door, his movements smooth but deliberate. Pausing, he checked the peephole, his breath slipping out in a quiet exhale through his nose as he recognized the figure outside. With a resigned shake of his head, he undid the lock and pulled the door open.
Kaia stood in the doorway, arms completely full, looking as if she had just carried the weight of the world on her shoulders.
A stack of homemade takeout containers dangled from her wrists, their lids carefully folded shut to preserve the warmth of the food inside.
The rich aroma of garlic, spices, and something sweet wafted in with her, promising a meal made with far more care than any delivery service could provide.
A vibrant bouquet of bright yellow tulips—freshly cut, their petals still damp from being plucked—was tucked under one arm, the cheerful flowers spilling outward like a burst of sunlight.
A carton of freshly brewed coffee, steam curling from the top, was balanced precariously against her hip.
And, tucked snugly between the food containers and her side, was a stuffed white rabbit—its wide black eyes staring up at Atlas, its soft ears flopping loosely, looking almost out of place amid the grown-up chaos of the meal she'd so carefully prepared.
Atlas stared at the pile of absurdity before him, unable to process just how chaotic it all was, or how Kaia had managed to haul it all in one go.
She stared back at him with an eyebrow quirked, clearly unbothered by the unusual load she was carrying.
Her lips curled into a small, impatient smirk.
"Well?" she huffed, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, causing the rabbit to wiggle precariously.
"Are you gonna help me or just keep standing there, staring like an idiot?"
Atlas blinked, the brief shock fading into a deep, exasperated sigh.
There was no point in protesting. With a roll of his eyes, he reached out and took a few of the heavier bags from her, his fingers brushing against the cool, slick plastic.
He stepped aside, holding the door wide so she could pass, and watched as she breezed past him, completely at ease with herself, as if this was her home and she had every right to walk straight into the kitchen.
Kaia didn't hesitate, heading toward the counter with a purposeful stride.
She set the coffee down with a soft clink, her eyes immediately scanning the kitchen, searching for the places to deposit her assorted goods.
The yellow tulips were placed in a vase, the stuffed rabbit set carefully on the counter as though it were a cherished heirloom.
And without a single glance back at Atlas, she began to arrange everything with an ease that made the entire situation feel as casual as a daily routine.
Only once her hands were free did she take a breath, as if the weight of her cargo had finally been lifted.
Anya's head lifted at the sound of approaching footsteps, her tired eyes widening slightly when she saw Kaia marching into the kitchen.