An amused chuckle tumbled out of Boothill as his keen eyes observed you with a sidelong glance, his lips curling into a mischievous smirk. You were hunched over, working diligently on the gizmos and gadgets embedded in his forearm, your fingers moving with a blend of precision and frustration. This was meant to be simple routine maintenance, but it was goddamn surprising his arm managed to hold up this long.

All the bastard did was shift into a more comfortable position, crossing one ankle over his knee. His nonchalance was infuriating. "Didn't mean to bust her that hard, darlin'," he drawled, the hint of a taunt lacing his words.

He cocked his head to the side, his gaze never leaving you. There was a spark of amusement in his eyes, clearly entertained by your evident annoyance. You could feel his eyes on you, and it only made the task at hand more aggravating. The more you struggled with the damaged mechanism, the more his smirk seemed to grow.

"Need a hand, or you got it?" he teased, knowing full well that—one—he doesn't know how as well as you do and—two—you'd rather eat nails than ask for his help. His voice was smooth, dripping with that infuriating blend of charm and arrogance that made you want to detach his forearm and throw the whole contraption at him.

Something he'd never admit? He only let himself get careless enough to bust his arm just to see you for longer. Just to spend more time around you during these routine checkups. The damn things never lasted nearly as long as he wanted.

At your glower, Boothill's chuckle deepened, a rich sound that filled the space. "I'm just teasin', sweetheart. Don't go takin' me apart now."