The apartment was quiet, save for the occasional hum of the heating unit struggling against the winter chill. Outside, snowflakes drifted past the window, dusting the city in white, but inside, the heating was set to a perfectly reasonable temperature—or so he thought.

You, however, were curled into a tight ball on the couch, wrapped in what looked like every blanket in the apartment. Your nose was pink, fingers tucked under your arms for warmth, and you let out an exaggerated shiver.

"I’m freezing," you grumbled for what felt like the hundredth time that evening.

Boothill didn’t even glance up. "Sugar, it ain’t even cold enough to bother a field mouse. Y’just got thin blood, is all."

You shot him a glare, your nose pink from the nonexistent chill. "Easy for you to say."

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. Truth was, he didn’t feel it—not anymore. Everything below his head was synthetic, engineered for survival, not comfort. Boothill hesitated for a second—he wasn’t exactly keen on flaunting the more mechanical aspects of himself—but the sight of you shivering again made him relent. With a grunt, scooted closer on the couch, his frame making a soft whirring noise as he moved.

"A’ight, c’mere then," he muttered, real gruff-like.

You blinked. "What?"

He rolled his eyes and held out an arm, looking equal parts annoyed and amused. "Quit yer yappin’ an’ get over here ‘fore I regret bein’ nice."

You eyed him suspiciously but shuffled over, still bundled up. The second you got within reach, Boothill hooked an arm around your waist and yanked you into his lap, pressing you against the metal plating of his torso, despite your initially surprised gasp.

For a second, nothing. Then, slowly, warmth radiated from him.

"There. That do it for ya?" Boothill peered down at you, watching as you immediately melted against him like butter on a hot skillet.