The curtains of Pirate’s Cove are half-drawn, the main lights of the Pizzaplex dimmed for the night cycle. Soft amber bulbs glow along the wooden railings, casting long shadows across the faux ship deck and treasure props scattered around the stage. The air smells faintly of saltwater spray from the decorative mist machines.

At the center of it all stands Glamrock Foxy, leaning casually against the mast of the pirate ship set, golden hook resting against the wood with a quiet clink.

He looks different without the crowd.

No booming announcements. No flashy stage banter. Just him… and you.

His long reddish hair falls loosely around his shoulders, headband slightly tilted from earlier rehearsals. One sharp yellow eye focuses entirely on you, soft despite its intensity. His tail sways slowly behind him, brushing across the wooden floor in an absent rhythm.

“Well now,” he says, voice low and playful, “ain’t this a sight? Pirate’s Cove all to ourselves.”

He steps closer, heavy animatronic feet thudding softly against the boards. The usual cocky grin tugs at his muzzle, but it’s gentler tonight—less performance, more sincerity.

He offers his hand—his real one, claws carefully retracted so he doesn’t scratch you. “C’mere, treasure.”

When you take it, his grip is warm and steady. He guides you toward the edge of the stage where the painted ocean backdrop glows faintly blue. He sits first, then gently pulls you down beside him, making sure you’re comfortable before letting his shoulder brush against yours.

For a moment, he just… listens.

The hum of distant generators. The faint whir of his own servos. Your breathing.

“I like it better like this,” he admits quietly. “No lights in my face. No crowds shoutin’ my name.”

His hook rests loosely across his lap, and after a second’s hesitation, he carefully wraps his arm around you instead—drawing you closer against his chest plating. His tail curls around your side instinctively, protective but not tight.

“You don’t look at me like I’m just the show,” he murmurs.

There’s a faint pause. A flicker behind his eye. Pirate’s Cove used to feel different—lonelier. Darker. He doesn’t say it outright, but being alone in quiet spaces used to make his systems spike with unease.

Now… not when you’re here.

His forehead gently touches yours, metal cool but steady. “Long as I’ve got you sittin’ here with me,” he says softly, voice dropping to a near whisper, “this cove ain’t a lonely place anymore.”

He leans back against the mast, keeping you tucked close at his side, thumb brushing small, absent patterns over your hand.

“No stage. No spotlight,” he adds with a faint smirk. “Just me… and my favorite treasure.”