44 | ☕Pregnancy Craving Normal Edition ☕
Anya couldn't help but smile as she leaned back into the couch, the jar of melted chocolate and her growing collection of odd food pairings scattered around her.
This was supposed to be a time of joy, of glowing anticipation, but between the morning sickness, the bizarre cravings, and the overwhelming fatigue, she felt like she was on the verge of losing her mind.
The twins were already keeping her on her toes, and they hadn't even been born yet.
As she dipped another slice of pickle into the gooey mess, Atlas watched her with a mixture of disbelief and concern, his brows furrowed and his fingers twitching as if he might need to intervene in some way.
His deep blue eyes were fixed on the sight before him—his fiancée, as radiant and strong as ever, but currently eating something that looked like it belonged in a horror film rather than a pregnancy craving.
She paused mid-bite, the chocolate-covered pickle balanced on her fork. Without hesitation, she nodded, her face lighting up with an almost childlike enthusiasm. "Mhm," she replied, completely unfazed by the absurdity of it.
Atlas winced as he watched her happily crunch down on the salty-sweet mess, the sound of it echoing in the quiet room.
His hands moved slowly, fingers twitching in frustration as he signed, "That's... concerning," rubbing his forehead with a sigh, as though the sight alone could give him an instant headache.
Anya swallowed the bite, then looked at him with an exaggeratedly serious expression. "You promised you wouldn't judge me."
He pinched the bridge of his nose, looking up at the ceiling for a moment, as if searching for some way to make sense of the situation.
His hands moved in slow, deliberate signs.
"I did. But I also didn't expect you to eat—" He gestured toward her plate with disbelief, his fingers frozen in the air as though the sight itself was too much to process. "That."
Anya raised an eyebrow, cutting him off. "You wouldn't understand."
Anya couldn't help it; the sound of his exasperation made her laugh.
She took another bite of her chocolate-covered pickle, savouring the taste while her grin widened.
"Welcome to fatherhood, babe." She leaned back, feeling oddly proud of herself for throwing him into this whirlwind of chaos that came with the territory of pregnancy.
Later That Night...
At 2 a.m., the sharp, unmistakable sensation of something poking Atlas's side jerked him out of sleep. His body tensed, fighting against the haze of exhaustion clouding his mind, but he knew exactly what it was. The poking didn't stop, and the sound of Anya's soft voice broke through the grogginess.
"Atlas," she whispered urgently, as though this was the most important thing in the world.
He groaned, lifting his head from the pillow just enough to squint at the clock on the nightstand.
The numbers glared back at him in cruel, fluorescent red.
2:00 a.m. "What?" he signed, his fingers slow and sluggish, his voice thick with sleep.
He tried to ignore the uncomfortable poking at his side, his eyes barely staying open as he shifted, hoping for a few more minutes of peace.
Anya, sitting up in bed now, was clearly wide awake, her expression serious. "I need food."
Atlas blinked, his brain struggling to catch up.
His eyes felt heavy, and the idea of leaving the comfort of the bed to satisfy some late-night craving felt impossible.
"I just got you a full dinner six hours ago,"he signed, his fingers sluggish, his frustration barely contained.
He rubbed his face with one hand, the motion slow and tired, hoping that would somehow buy him more time to fall back asleep.
But Anya, unperturbed, crossed her arms as if to make her point clearer. "That was six hours ago."
Atlas groaned again, the frustration of his lack of sleep finally starting to catch up with him.
He glanced at her, still trying to process the logic behind her request.
"What do you want now?" he signed, his fingers slow and heavy with the weight of exhaustion.
His eyes were half-closed, and though his voice remained silent, the frustration was evident in the way his brows furrowed, his body language screaming resignation.
Anya paused, her expression unreadable for just a second before it shifted into something more sheepish.
Atlas squinted at her, noticing the way her lips curled into an almost guilty smile.
The look in her eyes made him feel like he was about to be caught in the middle of some outrageous revelation.
"Why do you look guilty?" he signed, his fingers forming the words with a mix of curiosity and suspicion.
His brows knitted together, and he leaned slightly forward, as though trying to piece together what was going on in her mind.
She bit her lip, looking like she was debating whether or not she could even bring it up. She hesitated for a moment before finally speaking, her voice dropping just a little lower as if this were some grand confession. "I kinda... want fried chicken. With peanut butter."
Atlas blinked. Once. Twice. And then again, to make sure he hadn't misheard her.
Anya giggled, the sound light and playful, and Atlas couldn't help but feel his mood lighten, even if just a little. There was something about the carefree way she embraced the insanity of her cravings that always made him smile, even when he wanted to tear his hair out in frustration.
Atlas let out a long, dramatic sigh, feeling as though the weight of the world was on his shoulders.
After all, he ran an international company, dealt with high-stakes meetings, and negotiated life-changing deals with multi-billion-dollar implications.
And yet here he was, about to make peanut butter-covered fried chicken in the dead of night because his fiancée had a craving.
As he shuffled to the kitchen, the cool air of the house seemed to slap him awake, and he glanced at the clock.
It was 2:15 a.m. now, and he was already preparing for the great task of making chicken.
The frying pan, the peanut butter, the fried chicken — his mind kept repeating the combination over and over, making sure his tired brain didn't forget anything.
He pulled open the fridge, his movements slow and deliberate as he rummaged through it.
The items inside suddenly felt foreign, like the universe itself was mocking him with every misplaced ingredient.
The peanut butter jar seemed to gleam under the kitchen light, almost mocking him as he unscrewed the lid.
The oil in the frying pan began to glisten, sizzling lightly in the silence of the night.
Fried chicken... peanut butter?Is the universe testing my patience?
he wondered, his frustration bubbling under the surface.
The frying pan hissed as he added the chicken.
The sizzling sound was oddly comforting, grounding him back in reality, but he couldn't help but chuckle to himself at the sheer absurdity of it all.
Here he was—Atlas Valtieri, the man who had conquered so many things in his life—cooking up a bizarre midnight snack for his pregnant fiancée, who was convinced that peanut butter-covered fried chicken was the answer to her cravings.
When he finally placed the plate in front of Anya, Atlas gave her a mock salute, his fingers exaggerated in their motions.
"Dinner, your majesty," he signed with a dramatic flourish, his voice dripping with playful sarcasm as he set the plate down.
His expression was a mix of exhaustion and amusement, the absurdity of the situation not lost on him.
Anya's face lit up as if she'd just been handed the most decadent, luxurious meal on the planet. She picked up a piece of the fried chicken, eyed it for a moment, and then took a bite. The sound of her chewing slowly filled the room, and Atlas watched her, unsure if he should be worried or amused.
She swallowed and then met his eyes. "You did it. You actually did it," she said, her voice dripping with awe as she took another bite.
Atlas raised an eyebrow, his gaze locking onto hers with a mix of amusement and mock seriousness. "Yeah, I did. And if you ever ask for this again, you're going to have to start doing it yourself,"he signed, his fingers slow but firm, as though he were issuing a warning.
Atlas had barely stepped into his office when his phone buzzed violently in his pocket, vibrating with such urgency that it startled him.
He had just finished a gruelling morning meeting, his mind occupied with contracts, deadlines, and a multi-million-dollar merger that needed his approval.
But the moment he saw Anya's name flash across the screen, all of that became secondary.
Atlas answered immediately, his hands moving with effortless familiarity as he slipped into his usual affectionate tone. "Hello, love—"
The screen of his phone glowed softly in the dimly lit room, casting a gentle light across his face as he looked at Anya through the video call. Her expression was tired but warm, and the sight of her made some of the exhaustion in his own body melt away.
"I NEED SPAGHETTI—BUT WITH ICE CREAM ON TOP."
Atlas stopped in his tracks, nearly dropping his phone. His grip tightened instinctively as he quickly adjusted the angle of the video call, his dark blue eyes wide with disbelief.
"I saw it on TikTok! It's a thing!" Anya's voice carried the kind of excitement that usually accompanied a great discovery, like she'd just uncovered the secret to eternal youth.
Atlas exhaled sharply, already feeling the headache forming between his brows. He pinched the bridge of his nose, his fingers pressing against the lingering tension there as if he could will himself into patience.
He let his hands fall to his sides, staring at her through the video call with the expression of a man who had just witnessed something truly horrifying. Anya, on the other hand, only grinned, clearly unbothered by his distress.
Anya gasped dramatically. "It's a crime against our babies if you don't bring it."
Atlas stood in the doorway of their kitchen, arms crossed, watching in pure, unfiltered horror as Anya enthusiastically slurped up a forkful of spaghetti—smothered in vanilla ice cream, drizzled generously with caramel.
He had seen many things in his life. Ruthless corporate takeovers. Multi-billion dollar negotiations that left grown men trembling. But this? This was something else.
Atlas narrowed his eyes, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and mild horror.