Death Of Me (William Afton X Reader)

̷C̷̷h̷a̷̷p̷̷t̷̷e̷̷r̷ ̷T̷̷w̷̷e̷̷n̷̷t̷̷y̷-̷N̷̷i̷̷n̷̷e̷

You sat beside William on his couch, cradling the warm mug he’d handed you like it was a fragile lifeline. The faint, calming scent of lavender rose with the steam, weaving through the air between you. He’d added sugar—just the way you liked it. That little detail made your chest tighten, a bittersweet ache swelling at the thought. He paid attention, even when you thought he didn’t. And wasn’t that just infuriatingly endearing?

Yet, despite the comforting tea and the quiet weight of his presence, the silence between you felt like a third, uninvited guest. Well, it felt uncomfortable to you. He, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease, his posture relaxed, one arm stretched lazily along the back of the couch. He looked like he had all the time in the world, while you sat there, trying to figure out how not to combust under the pressure of your own overthinking.

You shifted slightly, clutching the mug like it might offer some kind of answer. When it didn’t (traitorous tea), you cleared your throat and blurted out, “I, uh… I’m sorry I randomly showed up and had an emotional breakdown in your living room.”

The words came out louder than you’d planned, your awkward laugh following just a beat too late to smooth things over. You tried to play it off with a crooked smile, though your grip on the mug tightened like it might shatter at any moment. Humor had always been your armor, after all.

But inside, you weren’t laughing. Not even a little.

You could still feel the humiliation clawing at the edges of your mind. The memory of earlier—showing up at his door, tears streaming, voice cracking as you tried to explain why your world felt like it was crumbling—played on a loop in your head. Like some kind of second-rate drama with you as the overly emotional protagonist. You could practically still hear the scorn in your parents’ voices, could still feel Jack’s betrayal like a bruise that refused to fade.

And yet, underneath all the embarrassment and self-consciousness, there was something else. A warmth that you were too scared to name. Relief. Maybe even gratitude.

Because William hadn’t turned you away. He hadn’t sighed in exasperation or told you to get a grip. He hadn’t looked at you like you were some hysterical mess to deal with. Instead, he’d opened the door, stepped aside, and let you fall apart in front of him without judgment.

And now, here he was, sitting beside you, unbothered by your presence or your emotional baggage. He hadn’t made you feel like a burden. Hadn’t made you feel stupid for being upset. If anything, his calmness was steadying, like a quiet reminder that, for once, you didn’t have to hold it all together by yourself.

The memory of his kisses flashed in your mind—soft yet intense and all in all consuming, the kind that made you lose track of where you ended and he began. The kind that left you breathless and dazed, like a heady intoxication you weren’t entirely sure you wanted to sober up from. And now, even in the stillness, his quiet care was suffocating in a completely different way.

The realization made you blink down at your tea. When was the last time anyone made you feel like this? Safe. Seen. Like maybe—just maybe—you weren’t as broken as you always told yourself you were.

And that thought, as comforting as it was, was also terrifying.

You took a small sip of the tea, letting its warmth spread through you like a quiet reassurance as your thoughts spiraled in every direction. Doubt still lingered at the edges of your mind—familiar, persistent, and all too comfortable. Trust wasn’t something you handed out like party favors, not when life had taught you over and over that you were more of a backup plan than anyone’s first choice. But then there was him. William. Calm, unyielding, maddeningly unreadable—and yet, maybe, just maybe, someone who wouldn’t let you down.