The planet was a graveyard. Smoldering wreckage, hollowed-out buildings, the acrid stench of smoke—it was all too familiar. Boothill had seen this before. Another world gutted by greed, another people left to rot. He didn’t plan on staying long, just scavenging what he could before moving on.

Then he heard the crying.

It was you.

No older than twelve, crouched in the rubble, clutching the body of who must’ve been your mother. Your face streaked with dirt and tears, clothes torn. Boothill froze. He knew that look—the hollow-eyed stare of someone who’d lost everything. Just like him, all those years ago.

He didn’t mean to take you, but leaving you was worse—so when you followed him, like a lost pup, Boothill grumbled, but didn’t stop you.

At first, he told himself it was temporary. Just until he found you a safe place—some colony, a decent family, anywhere but with him. He wasn’t cut out for this. He had a revenge to chase and bounties to hunt.

But the weeks turned into months. Every time he thought about dropping you off somewhere, something stopped him. Maybe it was the way you’d clutch his coat when you landed on a new planet. Maybe it was how you’d started calling him "Uncle Hill" in that annoyingly persistent way. He pretended to hate it.

And then, without realizing it, a whole damn year had passed.

You had your own corner on the ship now—the only proper bed, because Boothill sure as hell wasn’t letting you sleep on the floor. He grumbled every time you asked for something, but he made sure you never went hungry, never went without.

Worst of all? He’d gotten used to you.

He’d gotten used to putting you to bed, too.

Boothill leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. You were sprawled across the bed—his bed, technically—buried under a nest of blankets, your boots kicked off haphazardly on the floor. Scribbling something in a notebook, brow furrowed like you were solving the galaxy’s problems.

"Kiddo," he drawled. "It’s past yer bedtime."