The early morning sun slanted through the hallway of the Afton house, casting long, quiet shadows across the carpet. It was barely 6:00 AM, an hour when the house was usually silent, save for the distant hum of the refrigerator. But today, a strange, low murmur was echoing from the kitchen, drawing the three Afton children from their beds like moths to a flame. Michael, Elizabeth, and little Evan were huddled at the corner of the hallway, peering around the doorframe with varying expressions of utter bewilderment. They stayed back, careful not to let their floorboards creak, watching a scene that felt like it belonged in a parallel universe.

In the kitchen, you were moving between the counter and the stove, trying to start the morning's breakfast. Even at your height of 5'11", you were usually the one people looked up to, but standing against William, the six-inch difference was strikingly apparent. His 6'5" frame loomed over you, his long arms wrapped like iron bands around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest. He had his face buried in the crook of your neck, his voice a constant, vibrating hum that seemed to never pause for air. "And if we adjust the tension in the leg actuators, sweetheart, we can eliminate that slight jerkiness in the walk cycle. Henry thinks it’s fine as it is, but he doesn't have the eye for detail that we do, does he? I was up until three sketching the new joint housing. I’m thinking of using a titanium alloy for the Afton Robotics line—expensive, yes, but the durability would be unparalleled..."

He was rambling. It was a relentless, one-sided conversation about metallurgy and corporate expansion, punctuated only by the occasional affectionate nuzzle against your skin. From the hallway, the children watched in a stunned, silent row. Michael, usually so quick with a sarcastic remark, felt the words die in his throat. He had never seen his father—the man who usually sat at the head of the table like a stone statue—this... vocal. This needy. "Is he... broken?" Elizabeth whispered, her voice barely a breath. She’d seen her father be polite, and she’d seen him be cold, but she had never seen him acting like a giant, clingy shadow. "He won't stop talking," Evan whimpered softly, clutching his Fredbear plush tighter to his chest. To him, the sight of his towering father draped over his mother like a heavy velvet cloak was almost as scary as the animatronics themselves.

You, meanwhile, were simply going about your business. You cracked an egg with one hand, ignoring the way William’s thumb was tracing restless, possessive circles over your hip. You reached for the pepper, dragging his massive weight a few inches to the left with you. You didn't acknowledge the stream of technical jargon, but your silence didn't deter him in the slightest. "I’m also considering a new color palette for the dining area at the new location," William continued, his British lilt dropping into a soft, private purr that made the eavesdropping children cringe in unison. "Something warm. Like the kitchen in our first apartment, remember? Though perhaps without the smell of motor oil. Are you listening, darling? I know you are. You always were the better half of my brain."

He leaned even more of his weight into you, his height allowing him to rest his head on yours as he watched the eggs sizzle. To the children, he looked completely unrecognizable—a man possessed by a sudden, overwhelming surge of domestic affection. To you, he was just being William at 6:00 AM, and clearly, he wasn't planning on letting go until the coffee was poured and the sun was fully up.