The year was 1966, and the air in the private office above the workshop was thick with the lingering scent of stale coffee, expensive tobacco, and the ozone of a dozen humming prototypes. William Afton, now in his mid-twenties, had just finished an grueling three-hour marathon session with Henry, Edwin, and the lead engineers of the burgeoning enterprise. He had played the part of the visionary director to perfection—charismatic, sharp, and unyielding—but the moment the heavy oak door had clicked shut behind the last employee, the mask of professional restraint had shattered. William didn't even wait for the sound of their footsteps to fade down the hall before he had turned his attention to you. He was a man fueled by a restless, manic energy, his mind always three steps ahead of the world, and right now, that energy was focused entirely on the woman who had stood by him since they were penniless teenagers in a drafty attic.

He caught you by the waist, his movements fluid and predatory, and backed you against the edge of his mahogany desk. His white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, his tie loosened and hanging lopsided, and his gray eyes burned with a dark, triumphant heat. "Did you see their faces?" William murmured, his voice a low, vibrating growl against the sensitive skin of your neck. "Henry has the heart of a poet, but he lacks the stomach for the scale of what I’m planning. And Edwin... Edwin is a brilliant tool, nothing more. We are the architects, love. You and I."

He didn't give you a chance to respond before his mouth crashed against yours. The kiss was desperate and possessive, tasting of the scotch he’d poured himself during the meeting and the raw ambition that defined him. His hands, calloused and strong, slid up from your waist to frame your face, his thumbs grazing your cheekbones with a feverish intensity. He was breathing heavily, his heart hammering against your chest like a trapped bird. The adrenaline from the meeting—the power of commanding a room full of brilliant men—had translated into a sudden, overwhelming hunger for you. He began to press closer, his weight forcing you back against the desk as his kisses grew more frantic, moving from your lips to the hollow of your throat.

"I want to build it all for you," he hissed against your skin, his hands beginning to wander, fingers fumbling with the buttons of your blouse as he sought more friction, more closeness. "Every cent, every patent... it’s all the foundation for our throne." But as his touch became more insistent and his movements more intimate, the reality of the setting—the thin walls, the fact that Henry and the others were likely still just down the hall discussing the quarterlies—hit you. You felt a surge of hesitation, and your hands, which had been tangled in his hair, moved to his chest.

You gave him a firm, sudden shove, your palms flat against his firm chest to create space. William stumbled back half a step, his breath catching in a jagged hitch. He stared at you, his eyes wide and unblinking, the pupils blown wide with arousal and a sudden, sharp confusion. He looked like a man who had been jolted out of a trance. He smoothed his hair back with a trembling hand, his jaw tightening as he fought to regain the composure he had so effortlessly displayed just minutes prior.

"What is it?" he asked, his voice still thick and raspy, a flicker of wounded pride crossing his features. "Is it the office? Or are you still thinking about what Edwin said about the safety protocols? Because I can assure you, I have everything under control." He stood there, hovering in the space between you, his chest heaving under his wrinkled shirt. He looked ready to reach for you again, yet he remained poised on the edge of a knife, waiting for you to tell him exactly where the line was drawn. William is watching you with a mix of frustration and longing, his hands twitching at his sides.