41 | ☕Overprotective Atlas Activated ☕ #2
He signed, each gesture weighted with emotion, "You're pregnant."
His signs were low and strained—a raw, honest murmur conveyed through the movement of his hands, as if he were still trying to process the enormity of the news in real time.
The message hung between them, echoing with disbelief, tenderness, and hope.
Anya's throat tightened, and her heart pounded in time with his steady pace. She caught his look, her eyes filled with relief, nervousness, and unsaid love. With a slight nod of resignation and acceptance, she muttered, "I am."
Atlas stared at her, his dark blue eyes searching hers, emotions flickering through them like an unreadable storm. His hands twitched at his sides, as if there was too much to say, too much to express all at once.
Then, with a sharp inhale, he moved again.
"Give me a second." The sign was clumsy, rushed, not his usual precise control. He scrubbed a hand down his face, exhaling hard before looking at her again. "I just—this is—" He stopped, flexing his fingers like he was trying to force himself to focus. "How long have you known?"
"Two weeks," she admitted, her voice small. "I wanted to tell you, but... I was scared."
His brows furrowed, hands moving before she could say another word. "Of me?"
"No! No, never of you," she said quickly, reaching for his hands, gripping them between her own. "I was scared of... of how things would change. Of how you'd feel. Of what this means for us."
Atlas let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. "Everything changes. But you and me? That doesn't." He squeezed her hands, his hold firm, grounding. "I love you. That doesn't change."
Anya let out a soft, breathless laugh, eyes stinging with unshed tears. "I love you too."
Atlas exhaled, his hands moving again. "We're having a baby." The way he signed it—slow, deliberate, like he was still trying to make sense of the words—made her heart ache.
She nodded again. "We're having a baby."
A small, incredulous smile tugged at the corner of his lips. A single breath of laughter escaped him, soundless but full of wonder. And then, without hesitation, he dropped to his knees, hands pressing against her stomach—gentle, reverent.
For a long moment, he just stayed there, his forehead resting against her belly, his fingers tracing soft, delicate patterns against the fabric of her shirt. When he finally looked up at her again, his eyes were shining, his hands moving before his thoughts could catch up.
"Our baby."
Atlas stood back up as he leaned down and kissed her—a kiss that was everything but gentle or cautious.
It was deep and engulfing, a nonverbal statement of every wild feeling he experienced.
His hands went to cup her face, luring her into the warmth of his lips, each kiss charged with raw desire and unspoken promises.
The intensity of the moment left her breathless, like if time had slowed especially for them.
When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested gently against hers.
His breathing was uneven, the quiet after the storm of his kiss laden with meaning.
Instead of spoken words, Atlas communicated with the graceful precision of sign language—a language that carried the weight of his soul.
His hands moved deliberately, each gesture imbued with the depth of his feelings.
With a rough, earnest intensity, his signs conveyed, "Anya, you are the love of my life. And now, you're carrying my child."
Each movement of his hands, each pause between the signs, echoed with disbelief, tenderness, and hope.
In that silent confession, his love was laid bare, and every bit of his soul was present in the moment.
Anya's heart stuttered at the revelation, the truth of his message settling over her like a warm, comforting blanket.
Before any further words could be exchanged, Atlas's lips brushed softly against her forehead—a delicate, fleeting kiss that carried an assurance of his unwavering care.
Then, leaning down toward her stomach, he pressed the gentlest of kisses against her skin, a tender caress that seemed to seal his promise.
Through his silent, impassioned signs, he declared, "Both of you are mine." In that charged, quiet moment, every unspoken word resonated between them, weaving a promise of shared futures and unbreakable bonds—a promise that transcended speech and was felt deeply in the language of their hearts.
Then, without another word, Atlas scooped her up into his arms with effortless strength, cradling her against his chest as if she weighed nothing.
"Atlas—!" she squeaked, startled by the sudden motion. Her hands instinctively gripped his shoulders, eyes wide in disbelief.
He didn't even hesitate. With the kind of stubborn determination that was so uniquely him, he carried her with steady, purposeful strides toward the bedroom. His grip was firm but gentle, his warmth seeping into her skin like a silent reassurance.
Anya gawked at him, incredulous. "That's not how it works! I'm not sick, Atlas. I can still—"
Before she could finish her protest, he was already lowering her onto the bed with careful precision, ensuring she was settled comfortably against the pillows. He pulled the covers over her like she was some fragile porcelain doll, tucking her in with a determined finality.
Then, instead of leaving, Atlas settled onto the edge of the bed beside her. His posture was relaxed, one arm resting against the mattress, but there was an unmistakable weight to his presence—an unspoken I'm not going anywhere that filled the space between them.
Anya blinked up at him, then let out a long, exhausted groan, dragging her hands down her face. Oh god.
Kaia had warned her.
Her best friend had laughed when Anya first voiced her anxieties about telling Atlas, predicting with absolute certainty that he would shift into overprotective-father mode the second he found out.
Anya had brushed it off, thinking Sure, he's protective, but he wouldn't be that bad...
She had been so wrong.
Because here he was—already treating her like she was made of fragile glass, like he had to personally ensure her well-being at all costs. Like she was incapable of doing basic human functions without his supervision.
With a long, exasperated sigh, she peeked up at him through her fingers, already knowing the answer but asking anyway, "You're never going to let me lift a finger, are you?"
Atlas didn't even hesitate.
He didn't pretend to consider it, didn't try to soften the inevitable truth.
Instead, his lips curved into a knowing smirk, dark blue eyes gleaming with quiet amusement as he lifted his hands and signed—"Nope."
Completely unapologetic.
Anya groaned again, dramatically flopping back against the pillows like a woman resigning herself to her fate. "You're ridiculous," she muttered, glowering at the ceiling as if it might offer her some kind of salvation.
Atlas only chuckled in response—a soundless laugh that she felt more than heard, his chest shaking slightly as he shifted closer.
Before she could react, he leaned down, his warmth enveloping her, and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to her forehead.
Soft. Steady. Sure.
Her breath hitched slightly, her heart betraying her by stuttering in her chest.