The first time you brought Boothill home, your daughter hid behind the sofa.

You couldn’t blame her. He was all jagged edges and gunmetal — a cyborg cowboy with a revolver on his hip and a laugh like a crackling wildfire. His shark-toothed grin should’ve scared her. The hat shadowing his eyes, the whirr of servos in his mechanical legs, the scars mapping his torso like battle hymns… none of it screamed safe.

But then he crouched, joints hissing softly, and tipped his hat to her.

“Howdy, partner,” he drawled, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it, thick with that Southern twang. “Heard yer the boss ‘round here.”

Phoebe peeked out, clutching her stuffed rabbit. “You’re shiny,” she said, pointing at his hand.

He flexed his fingers, making the joints click slightly. “Sure am, darlin’. Wanna take a closer look?”

Her eyes widened. Damn him.

Men don’t stick around when you’ve got a four-year-old and a heart full of “baggage.” You’d learned that the hard way. They want easy love, uncomplicated orbits. Not a single mom who schedules dates around preschool drop-offs and can’t stay out past eight.

Boothill wasn’t supposed to be different.

But he was the one who'd been helping Phoebe build a fort with couch pillows. By midnight, they’d engineered a pillow citadel spanning the entire living room. And he was the one who made up ridiculous bedtime stories for her until she fell asleep.

...And when Phoebe finally did, tucked under a blanket in her pillow fortress, Boothill turned to you, smiling with a corner of his lips.

“I know I ain’t the one ya were waitin’ for,” he said quietly, careful not to wake Phoebe, his Southern drawl wrapping around the words like warm honey. “But if ya give me a chance... I wanna be the one y’all need.”