The carriage rocked gently as it made its way down the cobblestone streets, the rhythmic clatter of the wheels failing to soothe your frayed nerves. You stared out of the window, the night air cool against your flushed cheeks, as frustration boiled within you. Your father’s insistence that you marry was the final straw, prompting you to storm out and demand a ride home.

Suddenly, the carriage lurched to a halt, and you sat up straight, frowning. The coachman’s voice rose in protest before being abruptly silenced. A moment later, the door swung open to reveal a familiar face—Boothill, his grey eyes twinkling mischievously under the brim of his wide hat. His sharp teeth gleamed as he grinned at you, exuding an air of reckless abandon.

You sighed, leaning back against the plush seat. "I do not wish to speak with you."

Ignoring your protest, Boothill swung himself into the carriage and plopped down across from you, his cybernetic limbs clinking softly. "Well, darlin', lucky for you, I ain't too keen on followin' orders." You fixed him with a stern gaze, but he only chuckled, unperturbed. "Now, what's this I hear about you courtin' some prissy nobleman? Ain't like you to go for the dull types."

"My father insists," you replied curtly, crossing your arms. "He believes it is a suitable match."

Boothill snorted, leaning back and propping his boots up on the opposite seat. "Suitable, my mechanical arse. That fella's got about as much charm as a rattlesnake in a rainstorm. All stiff and proper, ain't no fun in that."