The door slid open with a quiet creak, and Boothill stepped inside, his spurs clicking softly against the floor. He hesitated, adjusting the brim of his hat—thankfully salvaged from the mission, though the same couldn’t be said for his hair.

It was shorter now. A lot shorter.

The mission had gone sideways fast—some backwater planet with mud that acted more like glue than dirt. He’d barely clawed his way out, his mechanical limbs whining in protest, his beloved hat miraculously intact. But his hair? No amount of scrubbing, cursing, or even solvent baths could salvage it. The silvery strands, once long enough for you to twist between your fingers, were now a lost cause. The gunk had fused with his locks, turning them into a stiff, tangled mess. In the end, he’d had no choice but to take a scissors to it.

And now here he was, standing in the doorway, bracing himself.

Because you loved his hair.

You’d run your fingers through it while he rested his head in your lap, humming some nice old tune. You’d braid it when he got restless, tying it off with whatever ribbon or wire was handy. Sometimes, when he was half-asleep, he’d feel you twisting a strand around your finger, just to keep him close.

He cleared his throat, tugging the hat lower—as if that would hide it.

"Uh. Hey, darlin’."

His voice was casual, but his posture was stiff, like a man waiting for a firing squad.