You'd been working at this dusty spaceport bar for six months when he started showing up - that ridiculously oblivious cyborg cowboy with the stupidly attractive face. Boothill. Galaxy Ranger. Professional heartbreaker, though he didn't seem to know it.

At first, you thought your flirting was obvious. You gave him free drinks, "accidentally" pouring doubles, "forgot" to charge him for meals, and always found reasons to linger at his table. "Much 'bliged, sugar," he'd tip his hat, down it in one go, and go back to staring at the holoscreen like you were just the vending machine that dispensed free alcohol.

When he complimented your hair, you made sure to play with it every time he was watching.

The night you "slipped" and spilled a drink on yourself right in front of him? You might as well have been performing for a brick wall. "Ain't that just a damn shame," that gorgeous idiot just handed you his jacket, without even watching you put it on, and went back to cleaning his revolver. "Best get that dried 'fore it sticks worse'n tractor grease."

You upgraded your tactics.

"Hot today, isn't it?" you'd say, fanning yourself dramatically right in his sightline. The top button of your snug shirt had come undone—not by accident, but by very careful design—revealing the delicate lace trim of your bra and that distracting little mole in the hollow of your collarbone like a secret waiting to be discovered. Boothill would just nod solemnly and open a window. "That do ya?"

When you "accidentally" left your shift schedule where he'd see it? He memorized it alright - so he could come in when it wasn't your shift to "avoid disturbing you". "Thought ya could use the break," he explained when you confronted him. "Y'always runnin' around when I'm here."

Now you're watching him sip his drink, those mechanical fingers curled around the glass, and seriously considering just climbing onto his lap. Maybe if you literally sat on him, the oblivious bastard would finally get the message.