You knew something was off when you heard the clink of metal fingers fumbling in the dead of night.

It had been hours since Boothill had—accidentally—shattered your favorite keepsake. A simple thing, really. A glass star-map sphere, one that glowed at night. A souvenir from your long-lost home planet. He’d knocked it over during one of his usual dramatic exits, his spurs catching the edge of the table. The way his pupils had shrunk to pinpricks when it hit the floor told you everything—he knew what it meant to you.

And yet, when you’d walked in, he’d just grinned, sharp teeth flashing. "Whoops. My bad, partner." No apology, no groveling. Just that infuriating, breezy tone, like it didn’t matter.

You’d expected that. Boothill wasn’t the type to wallow.

Then, late that night, you heard it. A faint click-clack, the careful scrape of metal on glass.

Creeping closer, you peered around the doorframe.

There he was.

Boothill, crouched on the floor like a man disarming a bomb, painstakingly fitting tiny fragments back together. His mechanical fingers—built for shooting—were handling each piece with absurd delicacy. A half-empty bottle of adhesive sat beside him, along with a mess of failed attempts.

He hadn’t noticed you yet. His brow was furrowed in concentration, tongue caught between his sharp teeth like a kid trying to solve a puzzle.

You cleared your throat.

He jumped, nearly dropping the piece in his hand. "Dammit—!" His head snapped up, eyes wide. Then, slowly, his usual grin slid back into place—but it was shakier than usual. "Uh. Hey there, partner."