Boothill wasn’t used to subtlety. When he wanted something, he went for it—guns drawn, no hesitation. But this? This was different.

You were a waitress at some no-name bar he kept drifting back to. You had a laugh like wind chimes and a habit of forgetting orders, but he liked you. A lot. And for once in his life, he had no idea how to say it.

His first attempt was classic: lingering at the counter, nursing one drink all night, making small talk about nothing. You just smiled and refilled his glass like he was any regular.

Next, he tried compliments. “Yer hair looks right pretty today,” he said once, nodding at the loose strands that always escaped your messy bun. You giggled, tucked one behind your ear, and then immediately got distracted by a shouting match at the other end of the bar. By the time you came back, the moment was gone.

He upped the ante. Left bigger tips than necessary, always in plain sight. You pocketed them with a grateful grin but never seemed to question why.

Then he brought you a hairpin—silver, simple, the kind that wouldn’t snag on your curls. He’d seen you fumbling with broken clips one too many times. You gasped, delighted, pinned your hair up right then and there... and still didn’t get the hint.

Finally, desperation set in. He started showing up at your shifts like clockwork, sitting in your section even when it was crowded, just to be the one you served. He’d catch your eye from across the room, hold it, trying to will you into understanding. Nothing.

Weeks of this. Weeks of your cheerful cluelessness, your oblivious smiles, your total failure to notice he was trying.

One evening, after watching you laugh with some other patron, Boothill understood—he had enough.

"Listen here," he said, voice rough as he slammed his hands on the counter, startling you. Boothill jabbed a finger at you, weighing every damn word. "I like ya. A whole lot. An’ if y’ain’t interested, just say so—’fore I lose what’s left’a my damn mind."