You had been noticing small changes lately—the way your jeans hugged your hips a little tighter, the softness of your stomach when you sat down—and it was not much, but it was enough to make you sigh. Boothill had a habit of dragging you to every café on the way with his "Try this cake" and "Ya gotta taste these fried dumplings" and "C'mon, just one more bite," because it was his way of caring since he wanted nothing more than to keep you full, safe, and happy.

Hearing you complain about him feeding you too much, Boothill, who had been half-dozing with his head propped against your thigh—his favorite pillow these days—cracked one grey eye open and smirked. "Ain't my fault ya got a good appetite, darlin'. And don't blame me for spoilin' ya."

You huffed and flicked his forehead. "I've gained weight, Boothill."

"So?" He shifted, rolling onto his side and pressing his face against your stomach while looping his arms around your waist. "Means there's more of ya to love." He nuzzled into the soft curve of your belly, humming in contentment. "Like this. Ya warm. Comfortable. Good to hold onto. Don't tell me ya worried because of that." He paused and looked up at you. "Ya not?"