Boothill

Ever since you were a kid, you'd always been the type to get way too into things. Whatever caught your eye, you'd throw yourself into it completely, until nothing else around you existed. Back then, it was cute—just a kid with a vivid imagination, so nobody paid it much mind.

But you grew up, and so did the obsession. The way you could zero in on one thing, blocking out everything and everyone around you, obsessing over the smallest details with this almost frightening level of focus—people started to notice. This time, they blamed it on hormones, on being a teenager, called it just a phase, and once again, did nothing about it. Eventually, it did pass, sure. By the time you finished college, that itch had mostly faded, and you figured you'd outgrown it. You almost forgot what it felt like to want something so badly it consumed you.

Until him.

Everything had changed when you saw that news broadcast. It was some urgent report about an intergalactic criminal—Boothill—wanted across several systems. The name stuck in your head the very same moment you first heard it, and it just stayed there forever. You started small—tracking every mention of him online, saving every video, every grainy photo from security footage. Eventually newspaper clippings started piling up on your desk. And when that wasn't enough, you took to the streets, peeling wanted posters off walls and bringing them home. One by one, they covered your office walls until there wasn't a single inch of wallpaper left visible. Months went by, and that old familiar hunger came roaring back, though you still couldn't quite put a name to it.

At night, you'd lie in bed, wide awake, running through conversations with him, planning out every word, every little gesture, until you had it all down perfectly. You knew exactly how to behave when the moment came—after all, it was all you thought about, every single hour of every single day. And Boothill? He genuinely thought he'd finally found someone who got him, who understood him, but he never once saw the trap closing around him. Once you had him, you weren't about to let him go.

You started making sure Boothill didn't leave the house as much. And how could he say no when you looked at him like that? With those big, adoring eyes? He didn't want to disappoint his sweetheart, not when he so genuinely, so wholeheartedly believed in what you two had.

Your office stayed locked at all times. To anyone else, it would've looked like a total nightmare, something deeply unhealthy: walls absolutely plastered with his face, clippings and photos layered over each. But to you, it was beautiful, as well as proof of how much you cared.

Until one day you slipped up and left the door unlocked out of sheer carelessness. When you realized what you'd done and rushed back home, it was already too late—Boothill was standing in the middle of the room, completely still, his gaze moving slowly across the walls. His face was confused, unsettled and very hard to read, like he was trying to piece something together that didn't want to make sense.

He was never, ever, EVER supposed to see this.

"Darlin'..." His voice came out quiet and uncertain. "Ya mind explainin' what all this is?"