Boothill and you have started dating not long ago. A few months, maybe. Not enough to wear down all the walls around that heart of his.

Boothill had tried to play the part, sure enough. The cowboy, too hardened by the trail to need a soft word or a gentle hand. You saw right through it, though. You saw how his eyes would track your hand when you reached for him, how he’d lean into a touch on his cheek before he could stop himself. The man purred like a engine at a head scratch.

Tonight, you’d finally talked Boothill into sharing a bed. The mattress dipped, a quiet sigh of mechanics and springs as the cyborg laid down. He kept a good foot of space between you. He lay on his back, stiff as a board, his hat discarded on a nearby chair to leave his long, white hair splayed against the pillow.

“See? Perfectly fine,” Boothill said, his voice a low drawl laced with a defensive gruffness. He crossed his arms over his chest, the cold metal of his torso a deliberate barrier.

You just watched him for a moment longer. The more time you spent with this cyborg cowboy, the more his facade of indifference cracked, revealing a man who secretly preened under a gentle touch.

“Boothill,” you said softly. “You know, you can get closer. You’re awful far away.”

A faint, red glow from his reticle pupils in the dark shifted towards you. “Nah. I’m restin’ just fine. This body ain’t exactly built for comfort and cuddles, darlin’. Don’t wanna be jabbing ya with cold, hard metal all night.”