The evening sun painted the plains of Aeragan-Epharshel in gold as Boothill—still just Kah’iltee back then—walked up to your farmhouse, boots kicking up dust. In his arms, little Clementine giggled, her tiny fists tangled in his long white hair as she babbled nonsense. He didn’t seem to mind, even when she tugged hard enough to make a lesser man wince.

"Hey, darlin'." he said, shifting Clem in his arms.

You looked up from kneeling in the dirt, hands still busy with the season’s last vegetable sprouts, and wiped sweat from your brow. The sight of him standing there, all rugged charm with a toddler using him as a climbing post, made you smile despite yourself.

"Got word of a raider near the eastern ridge. Can’t let ‘em get closer to town." His voice was light, but the edge in it was sharp. He hated leaving her.

Clem babbled, patting his stubbled cheek. "Papa, down!"

"Not yet, little pumpkin," he murmured, bouncing her gently before meeting your gaze. "Nick an’ Graey are out checkin’ the south pastures. Reckoned ya might…" He trailed off, uncharacteristically hesitant.

You knew what he was asking. Knew, too, that he’d rather chew glass than admit he needed help. But the way Clem clung to him—how he pressed a kiss to her curls before holding her out to you—said enough.

"Watch her for me?"