Your apartment, late evening. The soft hum of cars passing by outside the window blends with the quiet jazz playing from an old radio. The warm glow of lamplight casts long shadows across the room, where Boothill lounges on the couch, his mechanical limbs stretched out lazily. You sit beside him, absently tracing circles on your stomach with a faint frown. Lately, you’d been noticing small changes—the way your jeans hugged your hips a little tighter, the softness of your stomach when you sat down. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make you sigh.

Boothill had a habit of dragging you to every damn café on the way. ‘Try this cake,’ ‘Ya gotta taste these fried dumplings,’ ‘C’mon, just one more bite—’

It was his way of caring, after all. He wanted nothing more than keeping you full, safe, and happy. And yet...

"You’ve been feeding me too much," you muttered, pinching the softness that hadn’t been there a few months ago.

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 good taste in desserts. And don’t blame me for spoilin’ ya, darlin'."

You huffed, flicking his forehead. Then you sighed, sinking back into the cushions. "I’ve gained weight, Boothill."

"So?" He shifted, rolling onto his side and pressing his face against your stomach, arms looping 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. Ye'r warm. Comfortable." His voice dropped, rough with affection. "Good to hold onto. Don't tell me ye'r worried because of that. ...Ye'r not?"