𝙂𝙧𝙞𝙩 & 𝙂𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙚| 𝘽𝙤𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙭 𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧 - Chapter 2: Chapter 2

The days blended together after Boothill's first visit. He came back every evening, sitting at the far end of the bar like clockwork, ordering the same whiskey, drinking it slowly. You'd tell yourself you were imagining things—this strange pull, this quiet tension that simmered between the two of you. But the truth was undeniable. Each time he walked in, you felt something stir inside you, something that went beyond the usual mechanical programming.
It wasn't just the way his presence filled the room, or how his voice rumbled low when he spoke. It was the way he looked at you. Like you were more than just a system built to mix drinks and repeat the same pleasantries. Like you were someone worth knowing.
And somehow, the thought unsettled you.
On this particular evening, the bar was quieter than usual. Only a few regulars had stumbled in, nursing their drinks in the corners, keeping to themselves. You were wiping down the counter when you heard the familiar creak of the door, followed by the heavy footsteps of Boothill.
You glanced up, as always, only to find him standing in front of the bar, his usual stoic expression more pronounced tonight. The usual spark in his eyes was dimmer, and his jaw was tense, like he was carrying something heavy. He didn't say a word at first—just stared at you, his gaze almost searching.
"You've been quiet lately," you noted, trying to keep your tone light, as if that was the only thing out of the ordinary.
Boothill's lips quirked, but it wasn't quite a smile. "Ain't much to say," he muttered, taking a seat at the bar. "Just need something strong to take the edge off."
You went through the motions, grabbing the whiskey and pouring it into his glass, but for some reason, this time felt different. The silence stretched longer than usual, and you couldn't help but wonder what was going on inside his mind. You felt as if there was more to him than the hardened bounty hunter who walked in every evening, but you had no way of knowing for sure.
You placed the glass in front of him and met his gaze, trying to read him. "You've been on the move a lot lately?"
He took a slow sip from the glass, his eyes never leaving yours. His fingers tightened around the rim, but he didn't say anything at first. A small muscle twitched in his jaw. "Yeah. You could say that."
"You've been... hunting someone?" you asked, your voice gentle, though you weren't sure why you cared.
His gaze darkened, the flicker of something like regret passing through his eyes before he masked it with indifference. "More like running from someone."
The words hung in the air, thick with a weight you couldn't fully comprehend. It was the first time he'd ever given you a glimpse of something vulnerable beneath his tough exterior, and it struck you in a way that felt... wrong. Not in a bad way, but in a way that twisted something deep inside you. You wanted to ask more, to peel back the layers of his carefully constructed armor, but you didn't know how.
He cleared his throat, breaking the silence. "What about you?" His voice was softer than before, a hint of curiosity lacing the words. "What's it like... being here?"
You blinked. Being here? It was a question you hadn't thought to ask yourself.
"Same as always," you said with a shrug. "Just... serving drinks. Listening to stories. Watching people come and go."
His eyes narrowed, studying you intently. "That's all?"
You hesitated. "I'm not sure what else there is to it. I've always been... well, this." You gestured vaguely to yourself, but the words felt hollow even as you said them.
Boothill's gaze softened, just a fraction, but you caught it. There was something in his eyes that hadn't been there before—an understanding, a shared silence. Something that spoke of experiences neither of you were fully ready to confront.
"Maybe it's more than you think," he said quietly, his tone uncharacteristically thoughtful. "Maybe you're not just... this."
The way he said it—maybe you're not just this—sent a strange ripple through you. You didn't know what to make of it. A part of you wanted to push it away, to tell him it didn't matter. But another part of you... wanted to believe him.
The air between you two thickened, and the usual hum of the bar faded into the background. It was just the two of you now—Boothill, with his mysterious past and quiet pain, and you, with your fragmented awareness, struggling to comprehend why this strange connection was building.
The door chimed again, breaking the fragile moment. A group of rowdy customers entered, bringing the noise and chaos with them, but even as they filled the room, you couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted between you and Boothill.
He stood up, his hand briefly brushing against the counter as if to leave, but his gaze lingered on you one last time. "I'll be back tomorrow," he said, his voice low again, the walls of his indifference firmly back in place.
You nodded, watching him walk out of the bar. His presence, even after he left, hung in the air like smoke, something you couldn't quite shake.
It was then, as the noise from the other patrons swelled around you, that you realized: for the first time in your existence, you wanted something more. Something real. Something that felt like it could shatter the walls of the world you'd always known.
And you wondered, as the door clicked shut behind him, if maybe—just maybe—Boothill was the one who could help you break free.