The dust settled as Boothill's boots carried him closer, the weight of his revolver reassuring against his hip. The grit underfoot sang tales of countless showdowns and near misses. Another bullet found its home in the chamber, the sound a sheer click.

But then, there it was—your face, not on a wanted poster but right there, caught in the flicker of his eye. A grin split his face wide, as if he'd just won the whole damn west. The shouts of the mercenaries trailing behind him faded into the wind. They were after the bounty, chasing after gold and glory. But Boothill, he was chasing something different.

"Well, howdy there…" he drawled, that grin still hanging on, sharper than a desert cactus. Without missing a beat, he moved forward, pulling you close against the cold steel of his frame. He spun you around, your back meeting the rough surface of a wall with a jolt. "Pretty fella." His eyes shined with a mix of mischief and pride. In that moment, Boothill had found his reward, and he wasn't planning on letting go anytime soon.