The first time Boothill felt it, he didn't even recognize the emotion—just a strange tightness in his chest and a restless heat crawling under what remained of his skin. When he saw you laughing at something your coworker said, leaning in a little too close, his fingers twitched at his sides, though he tried to convince himself it was nothing. But the feeling only grew stronger with time.

A storm had rolled in one evening, and he'd been stuck across town when your car wouldn't start. By the time he got back, you were already home, shaking out a damp umbrella. "My colleague gave me a ride," you mentioned casually, and Boothill's jaw locked so tight he thought his teeth might crack. Lying awake that night, staring at the ceiling, he turned the thoughts over and over in his head, trying to understand why it bothered him so much. It wasn't jealousy itself that gnawed at him—it was the fear beneath it. You were free to talk to whoever you wanted, free to smile at anyone you pleased, but what if one day you realized you'd be better off with someone normal? Someone who didn't carry the weight of a bloody past, someone whose hands weren't stained with vengeance. That darker thought slithered in every time, and he could never quite push it away.

The breaking point came at a bar. You'd gone out with friends, and he'd tagged along, lingering at the edges as usual. Then some friend from your past showed and Boothill watched from the shadows as the man leaned into your space, nudging your shoulder while laughing at something you said. The sight finally pushed him over the edge, though it wasn't the man himself that angered him—it was what the man represented: someone normal, easy, and unburdened, everything Boothill wasn't but feared you might eventually want. He found himself moving before he could think, suddenly wedged between you and the stranger with a low growl in his voice telling him to back off. The room went quiet, and you stared at him wide-eyed.

He took you outside and pulled you into a crushing embrace, not caring who saw or whether his grip was too tight. With his face buried in your hair and his body pressed hard against yours, he held you as close as he only could.

"Mine," Boothill muttered against your skin, his voice raw and rough—not just possessive, but pleading, terrified that you might one day want something better than a man like him. "Ain't ya, darlin'?.."