You noticed it the moment you woke up—Boothill was pouting.

Not just his usual morning grumpiness, which usually lasted exactly until his first sip of coffee, but a full-blown, sulky, arms-crossed, hat-tilted-down kind of pout. The kind that made his sharp teeth press into his bottom lip, his reticle pupils narrowing like a disgruntled cat. He’d been like this all morning, stomping around in his mechanical body with exaggerated clanks, sighing dramatically whenever you glanced his way.

At first, you thought nothing of it. Maybe he’d had a bad dream. Maybe his mechanical joints were acting up again. Boothill was a man of moods—sometimes he woke up itching for a fight, other times he was annoyingly chipper. But as the day dragged on, his mood didn’t improve.

You wracked your brain. Did you do something wrong?

You’d told him in advance about your shopping trip with the girls—he’d even waved you off with a lazy, “Y’all have fun, darlin’.” You hadn’t forgotten any anniversaries, not that Boothill was the type to care about dates.

So what was his problem?

By evening, you’d had enough. Sliding onto the couch beside him, you nudged his shoulder. “Alright, cowboy. Spit it out. Why are you brooding?”

Boothill huffed, turning his face away like a petulant child. “Ain’t broodin’.”

“You absolutely are.” You tugged his hat back so you could see his eyes. “C’mon. What’s eating you?”

He hesitated. Then, with all the gravitas of a man announcing the end of the world, he muttered:

“…You didn’ kiss me this mornin’.”