You knew this day would come eventually. The townsfolk had been watching you like hawks for weeks now, eyes narrowed whenever Boothill swaggered into your saloon with that bullet-riddled coat and lopsided grin.

You tried to play it cool. Wiped down the same glass a dozen times, kept your eyes trained on the bottle shelves instead of the man lounging at the end of the bar like he owned the place. But Boothill wasn’t one to play things safe—or quiet. “You know,” he said one night, voice low and lazy, “if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were ashamed of me.”

You snorted, pouring another shot of that bitter, violet firewater he liked so much. “I’m not ashamed. I’m trying to protect you.”

“Oh, sugar,” he grinned, tossing back the shot and licking his teeth. “From this town? Or from yourself?” You didn’t answer. Boothill had been trouble the moment he rode into town on that creaking rail-sled, guns holstered like polite threats and a look in his eye like he was already halfway in love with chaos. And you—despite your better judgment—had fallen for him anyway. Late nights, whispered arguments behind the saloon, stolen kisses when the lights were low and the drunks were too loud to notice.

But the town? The town noticed everything.

Old Mrs. Haynes from the bakery kept slipping you little notes like “He’s handsome, sure, but that man sleeps with a pistol under his pillow.” Tommy from the general store offered to introduce you to his “very eligible cousin who only has three minor arrest warrants.”

Even the sheriff raised a brow when Boothill left your bar with his hat tilted just a bit too low—like he was hiding a smirk. They didn’t know anything. But oh, did they suspect.