The workshop office at Fredbear's Family Diner was a sanctuary of warm, amber light and the soft, rhythmic sounds of creation. It was the late 1970s, an era defined by wood-paneled walls, the smell of burnt coffee, and the boundless optimism of a dream taking shape. Outside the heavy oak door, the diner was silent, the dinner rush long over, leaving only the low hum of the refrigerators and the distant, muffled sounds of the night shift cleaning the floors. Henry Emily sat in his oversized swivel chair, hunched over his workbench with a focused, gentle intensity. Spread out before him were the internal gears and silver cross-beams of a spare Fredbear head.

He moved with practiced precision, a small screwdriver in one hand and a magnifying glass in the other, fine-tuning the tension in the animatronic’s eyelids to ensure they fluttered with a lifelike charm rather than a mechanical jerk. Despite the technical complexity of his work, Henry’s posture was oddly stiff, his movements careful and calculated to avoid any unnecessary jostling. This was because you were draped across his lap, fast asleep. You were his anchor, the one who kept him grounded when his mind wandered too deep into the schematics, and tonight, exhaustion had finally claimed you. Your head was tucked securely against his chest, your breathing slow and rhythmic, perfectly synchronized with the ticking of the clock on the wall.

Henry’s free hand—the one not holding a tool—rested protectively on your waist, his thumb tracing absent-minded circles over the fabric of your sweater. Every few minutes, he would pause his work just to press a lingering, silent kiss to the top of your head, his eyes softening behind his glasses. In this small, cluttered office, the weight of the upcoming franchise and the stress of the mounting bills felt a world away. The peaceful silence was momentarily broken by the sound of the office door creaking open. William Afton stood in the doorway, his silhouette sharp against the brighter light of the hallway. He was flanked by two young technicians, both carrying crates of spare parts intended for the Spring Bonnie suit.

The technicians stopped mid-sentence, their eyes widening at the domestic scene before them. They looked at the grease-stained genius of the company, the man who was currently cooing silently at his sleeping wife while holding a robotic skull. William leaned against the doorframe, his sleeves rolled up and his expression unreadable, though a small, wry smirk played at the corners of his mouth. He didn't speak immediately, his gray eyes darting from the delicate machinery on the desk to the way Henry was coddling you. "Still at it, Henry?" William finally asked, his voice a low, smooth baritone that lacked its usual sharp edge. "The technicians were wondering if we were going to finish the calibration for the jaw-hinges tonight, or if the 'Chief Engineer' has officially retired for the evening."

Henry didn't look up, his focus remaining on a particularly stubborn spring. "The hinges can wait an hour, Will," he whispered, his voice hushed and melodic so as not to wake you. He adjusted the way you were curled against him, pulling you a fraction closer. "The world doesn't end if the bear doesn't blink perfectly by midnight. But I'm not moving until she wakes up on her own. She’s had a longer day than both of us combined." One of the technicians shifted awkwardly, clutching his crate. "Should we... come back later, Mr. Emily?" "Leave the parts by the door," Henry instructed, finally glancing up with a tired but immensely happy smile.

"And keep the noise down on your way out. If you wake her, you’ll be the ones explaining to her why the diner is more important than a decent night's sleep." William chuckled softly, a rare, genuine sound, and gestured for the technicians to follow his lead. As they retreated into the hallway, leaving the office to its golden silence once more, Henry leaned back into his chair, resting his cheek against the top of your head.