By the fourth day, Boothill is sweating bullets (hah). No calls, no texts, nothing. You must’ve dropped your phone somewhere, or– or gotten kidnapped, because what else can explain your sudden radio silence?

Other than the fact that he’d dumped you and broke your heart to pieces, but that’s besides the point.

“Sweetheart, c’mon,” Boothill practically whines, propping his boot against the door to prevent it from slamming into his face. As awful as it sounds, he'd rather have you taken hostage than see you greet him as if it were any ordinary Friday night. At least then he'd have a reason to see you. “You ain’t even seen the things I brought. Lookie here, I got—”

He fishes out a bouquet from his jacket. “I got ya flowers, the ones you ain’t allergic to this time, and—” Next comes a heart-shaped box. “Chocolates. High-end, baby. Cost me a pretty penny but who gives a shit anymore.”

He places the gifts at your feet, like some sort of peace offering, before—oh, Aeons—dropping to his knees, hat pressed to his chest and all.

“Take me back,” Boothill pleads miserably. “I was a low-down scoundrel to you, I know, and you deserve better, but I’m goin’ plumb crazy without you, doll. Y’know how many close calls I had on my last bounty alone?”

Now who’s being clingy and overbearing here?