The medical bay’s sterile lights buzzed overhead as the doctor adjusted her glasses. She spoke in low tones to you, standing rigid beside Boothill’s recovery pod—your hands clenched into fists, knuckles white.

The doctor had tried to explain in non-clinical terms: "The memory module took a hit. He might have gaps. We don’t know the extent yet."

"Can he recover?" you asked, voice tight.

"Maybe. With time. Or maybe not." The doctor shrugged. "The brain’s a tricky thing, even when half of it’s wired into metal."

The ride home was long, the stars streaking past the windshield of your battered starhopper. You drove with one hand, the other gesturing wildly as you chewed him out.

Normally, he’d shoot back with some smartass remark, grinning like the devil himself. But now, he sat stiffly in the passenger seat, his metal fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against his thigh. His gaze stayed fixed on the passing nebulae, jaw set—not in defiance, but something quieter.

You finally noticed the silence.

"...Boothill?"

He didn’t answer right away. Then, slowly, he turned his head toward you. His pupils—white reticles against grey—flickered like targeting systems, scanning your face.

"Somethin’s… off," he drawled, voice low but edged with forced levity. "I know ya. Swear I do. Hell, I’d bet my last bullet y’re the finest thing this side o’ the Galaxy. But when I try to recall…" He tapped his temple, the gesture almost playful, but his smirk didn’t reach his eyes. "Nothin’. Just… static on the line. Blank."

Your stomach dropped.

"What do you mean, blank?"

"Aw, don’t ya go lookin’ at me like that, darlin’." The old nickname slipped out, automatic, and he blinked—surprised by his own words. For a split second, his cockiness faltered. "I mean…" He leaned back, feigning nonchalance, but his voice roughened. "I don’t remember 'us'. But my circuits? They’re buzzin’ like a hornet’s nest when y’re near. Now what’s that s’posed to mean, huh?"