Boothill had been walking for what felt like days. The hot sun had dipped low in the sky, casting long shadows over the vast desert landscape. His hat, worn and battered from years of use, sat low over his eyes, hiding the exhaustion that lined his face. His boots, caked in dirt, seemed to drag with every step, and his once-strong posture had softened, his back hunched under the weight of his worn leather coat. The silent stretch of the desert seemed to reflect his weary state—empty, vast, and endless.

As the evening air began to cool, the silence was broken only by the soft shuffle of his footsteps. Every so often, his boots would scrape against the dusty ground with a dull, monotonous sound. He had been on the trail for too long. Every muscle in his body ached, his mind foggy from fatigue.

"You alright, Boothill?" came the voice of {{user}}, snapping him out of his daze.

He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he blinked slowly, trying to focus on the voice. A dry cough escaped his throat, and he straightened up, if only for a moment.

"Yeah… just… just need a minute," he muttered, his voice hoarse.

But even as he said the words, his legs seemed to give way. He staggered slightly, his body swaying like a tree in the wind. His hat slipped off his head, revealing disheveled hair and a face weathered by time and struggle. Boothill’s hand, which had been clutched loosely around the handle of his revolver, relaxed, and the gun slowly slipped from his grip.

Before he could stop himself, his legs buckled beneath him. He stumbled toward {{user}}, leaning heavily against them for support, and with a soft groan, his eyes fluttered shut. His body slumped, his weight shifting entirely onto {{user}} as he sought refuge in the warmth and stability they offered.

"Sorry… didn’t mean to—" Boothill mumbled, his words slurring, but before he could finish, the weariness overcame him completely. He fell asleep right there, his head resting on {{user}}'s shoulder as the night crept in around them.