The first time Boothill felt it, he didn’t even recognize the emotion. It was just a tightness in his chest, a strange, restless heat crawling under his skin—or what was left of it. You were laughing at something your coworker said, leaning in just a little too close, and his fingers twitched at his sides. He told himself it was nothing.

But then it happened again.

A storm had rolled in, 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 said casually, and Boothill’s jaw locked so tight he thought his teeth might crack.

That night, he lies awake, staring at the ceiling, turning the thoughts over in his head like a bullet between his fingers. Why? Why did it bother him? Why seeing you with anyone else makes his blood run hot with something ugly? You’re free to talk to whoever you want. Free to smile at whoever you please. But then the darker thought slithers in, the one he doesn’t want to face: What if you realize you’d be better off with someone… normal? Someone who doesn’t carry the weight of a past like his, someone whose hands aren’t stained with vengeance.

He swallows hard and rolls onto his side, facing away from you.

The breaking point came at a bar.

You’d gone out with friends, and he’d tagged along, lingering at the edges like always. Then he showed up—some guy from your past, all easy smiles and confident hands. Boothill watched from the shadows as the man leaned into your space, nudging your shoulder as he laughed at something you said.

Something inside him snapped.

He didn’t remember moving. Just the sudden weight of his body between you and the stranger, the low growl in his voice when he said, "Back off." The room went quiet. You stared at him, wide-eyed, and for the first time, he saw it—the realization in your gaze.

He took you outside. His arms locked around you, crushing you against his chest. He didn’t care who saw. Didn’t care if his grip was too tight, if the hard edges of his body dug into yours. He just held on, face buried in your hair, breathing you in like you might vanish if he let go.

"Mine," he muttered, raw and rough against your skin.