𝙂𝙧𝙞𝙩 & 𝙂𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙚| 𝘽𝙤𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙭 𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧 - Chapter 9: Chapter 9

Boothill stood in the quiet of the bar, his back to the counter, one hand resting on the surface. The lights were dim, and the familiar hum of the place, the same hum that had once felt so comforting to you, now seemed to echo in his ears like a distant memory. He'd returned from his bounty hunt only an hour ago, the job completed without much fanfare, but it hadn't brought him the satisfaction he'd expected.
Instead, his mind was elsewhere, occupied with thoughts of you.
You had been different lately. More confident, more... yourself. And Boothill couldn't shake the feeling that you were no longer just the friendly, easygoing bartender who always had a smile at the ready. No, now, you were someone who was starting to define your own life. It made him both proud and strangely unsettled.
He shifted his weight, glancing over at the door. You hadn't arrived yet, but it was late. It wouldn't be long. You had been taking more time to explore, to find your own way. He respected that—hell, he admired it—but that didn't stop the nagging feeling of jealousy that simmered within him. There was a part of him that hated how much he thought about you. It made him feel like he was losing control, like he was giving away pieces of himself he wasn't sure he was ready to give.
The door swung open with a soft chime, and his eyes immediately found you. You walked in, as if nothing had changed, yet Boothill could feel it in the air. You were different.
"Back to your post?" he asked, his voice more gruff than he intended. He didn't mean to sound harsh. He wasn't sure what he meant, but the words slipped out before he could stop them.
You stopped at the door for a moment, pausing as if to consider something, and then you smiled. That smile that always managed to pull at him in ways he couldn't explain. "Not exactly," you replied, a hint of mischief in your tone. "Just here for a drink."
Boothill watched you as you made your way toward him, your steps confident, but there was a flicker of something in your eyes, something like uncertainty. Maybe it was just him overthinking, but it didn't escape him.
"Not bartending tonight?" Boothill asked, and when you shook your head, he couldn't help but feel a little relieved. You were carving your own space, and he was beginning to see how important that was for you.
You took a seat at the bar next to him, far enough that the space between you felt like the distance between two worlds. "Nope. I've got something else in mind," you said, your gaze lingering on him for a moment before turning to the glass of water sitting in front of you.
Boothill's fingers tapped on the bar, the faint sound of the motion pulling him back from his thoughts. He opened his mouth to say something—anything—but the words stuck in his throat.
You, sitting there, free of the bar's constraints, your life your own for once—how had he gotten to this point?
"I've been thinking," you said after a long pause, turning slightly toward him. Your eyes met his, and for a moment, it felt like the world outside the bar had faded away. "About things. About us. About everything, really."
His heart gave a jolt. His eyes narrowed, and the sudden rush of tension made the air between you crackle. It wasn't the first time you'd broached such a subject, but something about the way you said it now made it feel different. You weren't just talking about your journey—you were talking about him, about where this was going, about the both of you.
Boothill fought the urge to lean back against the counter and keep his guard up, but something told him it was no use. Not with you. Not anymore.
"What about everything?" he asked, his voice barely more than a growl. His hands were still, but the rest of him felt tense, like he was on the verge of something—something he wasn't sure he was ready to face.
You took a breath, then shrugged, a soft smile playing at the corners of your mouth. "You," you said quietly. "Us. I don't know why, but it's been on my mind a lot lately."
Boothill didn't know how to respond. He wasn't a man who talked about his feelings—hell, he'd barely even acknowledged them. He'd been running from them his whole life. But in the silence of the bar, with only the faint hum of the city beyond the windows and the occasional clink of a glass, he couldn't ignore them anymore.
"I'm not good at this," he muttered, more to himself than to you, his gaze flickering down to his hands. "I'm good at catching bounties, at getting the job done. But this? I'm not... not built for it."
You didn't respond immediately. Instead, you let his words hang in the air, the weight of his vulnerability settling between you two. Finally, you leaned forward just slightly, your voice steady, but filled with sincerity.
"Boothill, you don't have to be perfect," you said softly. "I don't need perfection from you. I just need you to be here. With me. Now."
The simplicity of your words hit him harder than any punch ever could. He turned his head slowly, meeting your eyes. For the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to truly see you—not the bartender, not the woman who had been an enigma, but you—the one who saw through the walls he'd built.
He let out a long, shaky breath, his chest tightening in a way he hadn't anticipated. And then, before he could stop himself, the words spilled out.
"I don't know how to do this," he repeated, but this time, his voice was softer, almost tender. "I don't know how to let someone in without screwing it up."
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The world outside seemed distant, like it didn't matter anymore. And then, in the quiet, you reached over, your hand brushing against his arm in a gentle touch, one that sent an unexpected warmth through him.
"Maybe that's the point, Boothill," you said, your voice low but steady. "You don't have to have all the answers. We just... take it one step at a time."
Boothill swallowed hard, his chest tight as he looked down at the hand you'd placed on his arm. It felt like an anchor in the storm, grounding him in a way he hadn't felt in years. The thought of you had been a constant distraction, but now, with your words echoing in his mind, he realized something.
Maybe he wasn't supposed to have all the answers. Maybe, for once, he could just let himself feel.
"Yeah..." he murmured, his voice quieter now, more vulnerable. "One step at a time."
And for the first time, Boothill wasn't afraid to take that step. With you by his side, maybe he didn't need all the answers. Maybe he just needed to try.
And, for the first time in a long time, that was enough.