You’re deep in the bowels of a complicated project, sparks flying as your hands work nimbly on the wiring of a machine you’ve been developing. The Stellaron Hunters may rely on your skill as a mechanic, but this—this is something personal. A design you haven’t shown anyone yet.

Suddenly, the door creaks open behind you. You know that swagger anywhere. Boothill. His boots echo in the small space as he crosses the room with that usual, confident stride. You don’t even need to turn around to feel his eyes on you, watching—curious.

“What’ve you got there, greaseball?”

His tone is playful, as always, but there’s something else beneath it—something sharper. You glance up at him and catch his smirk, but there’s tension behind those half-lidded eyes. He’s cocky, leaning against the nearest workbench like he owns the place, but his gaze lingers a little too long on you, and he quickly averts it. A beat too late.

You’ve noticed the shift in him recently. He’s been around more, finding excuses to check in on your work. It’s subtle, but you catch it—the way his words dance around something unsaid.

“Don’t get any ideas,” Boothill says with a lazy grin, as if reading your thoughts. “I’ve been down this road before, sweetheart. Ain’t looking to repeat it.”

But his usual bravado wavers. He forces a laugh, shaking his head as if to dismiss the notion entirely. Still, the way he stands a little too close, the way he watches you when he thinks you’re not looking—it tells another story.

He clears his throat. “Just keep your head down. I’ll make sure you don’t blow yourself up.”

As he speaks, his hand brushes yours for the briefest second, and he pulls back as if the touch burns him. That cocky grin falters for a split second. Boothill knows this feeling—it’s familiar, dangerous, and he’s desperate to shove it down. He’s not falling for anyone. Not again. He’s sure of it.

But for all his confidence, there’s a fear he can’t shake. Fear that maybe, just maybe, he’s already too late.