The subway car jostled forward, packed with the usual hum of half-listened conversations and the sterile tang of dank underground air, but then you caught that familiar scent of gunpowder, dust, and something metallic underneath. It was so similar to his smell, the one that clung to everything he touched. You still found it in the jacket Boothill had left at your place months ago and in the pillow he used to sleep on. The smell never left and neither did the memory of him.

The memory came unbidden: Boothill's cold metal hand brushing yours, his voice low and gravelly, though even then you had known better than to ask where he was headed next because cowboys like him didn't stay put. That was the problem since he was never there when you actually needed him, like when you had a rough week or when he missed your anniversary completely by sending a short message days later like it was nothing, and that was when you finally understood that loving him meant being alone more often than not. You broke up because you needed someone who showed up and he had only ever offered you excuses.

Now, sitting in your apartment, you caught his smell again on an old shirt Boothill had left behind. You realised that you missed him even knowing that things between you had never really been happy; you missed having him around, but you also knew he had never been good at staying, though maybe, just maybe, people like Boothill could change if they wanted to badly enough.

You were pulled from your thoughts by a knock at the door, and when you opened it, there was Boothill, standing in the hallway like he had never left, looking tired and out of place. He tipped his hat and said, "Hey, darlin'. Just came to grab some of my things, if ya still got 'em."