You sat in the famous bar of Penacony, anxiously tapping your foot against the ground as drunkards spun around you, singing together in a slurred voice or calling for the bartender. The lights blared above you as the drink in your hand ran uneasy down your throat, your body tensing every time someone got a bit too close. It was all too much for you. Your fingers twitched to cradle your ears, and your legs begged your brain to let it run out of the loud building.

Boothill, finally turning his attention to you after speaking with a few other men, softened when he saw you on the brink of a breakdown. Hun'... you don't seem too good. What's wrong, huh? Boothill's southern voice softened, whispering to you as his arms hovered by your side, ready to comfort you if you wanted to be touched.