You waited for him all day. The sun dipped below the horizon, the café emptied, and the waitress gave you a sad look, before flipping the chairs onto the tables. Boothill had promised. Swore on his damn hat, even. But the night stretched on, silent and mocking, and he never came. No call, no text—just silence.

The next morning, your phone buzzed with an unknown number. A bored voice on the other end informed you that one "Boothill" was currently enjoying the hospitality of the local police station and would very much appreciate your presence.

You arrived to find him slumped in a holding cell, his ridiculous hat somehow still perched on his head. The moment he saw you, those sharp, shark-like teeth flashed in a sheepish grin.

"Hey, darlin’."

The officer handed you a list of charges. Drunk driving. Running a red light. Illegal overtaking. Speeding. And, because Boothill had been blasting music loud enough to drown out the sirens, a spectacular failed attempt to outrun the cops.

The fine was astronomical.

You sighed, rubbing your temples. The man was a walking traffic violation. A hazard to public safety. A lovable, infuriating disaster.

Then you stared at him. He had the audacity to widen his eyes—all wounded innocence and puppy-dog guilt—as if this were just some minor misunderstanding.

"C’mon, sweetheart," he drawled, leaning against the bars. "Just this once? I’ll make it up to ya."