Boothill knows love because he knows you. That’s all there is to it.

The morning light filters through the kitchen window as you move around, making breakfast. The sound of eggs sizzling, the scrape of a spatula—it’s all familiar, steady. Boothill leans against you, resting his forehead against your shoulder.

“Morning, darlin’,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep. He lingers there for a moment, pressing a slow kiss to your temple before pulling away just enough to watch you. “Smells real good.”