Robin and Boothill

Robin stood beside a makeshift crib, gently rocking the baby—swaddled snugly in a worn blanket—her small halovian wings fluttering as she gazed down at you. Her face a mixture of exhaustion and wonder, illuminated by the soft morning light filtering through the window.

Boothill, once a young and energetic cowboy, leaned against the doorframe, a half-smoked cigarette dangling from his fingers, his slightly weathered features softened now.

“Can you believe she’s ours?” Robin said softly, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear as you cooed in response. “Sometimes I feel like I’m dreaming.”

Boothill smirked, pride shining in his eyes. “Yeah, well, you’ve done all the heavy lifting. I’m just here for the baby talk and bad jokes.” He pushed off from the door and walked over to her, his demeanor shifting as he noticed the flicker of nervousness in her expression.

“I’m scared, Boothill,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “What if we mess this up? I never thought I’d be a mother… not like this.”

Boothill knelt beside her, his voice turning earnest. “I know how you feel. I had a daughter once, but she didn’t make it. Losing her was the hardest thing I’ve ever faced. But now, this is my chance to do it all over again. I might not have all the answers, but I’ll be damned if I don’t give you and this little one everything I’ve got. We’ll figure it out together, one day at a time, right?”

Robin’s smile returned, a flicker of reassurance igniting in her eyes at her husband’s words. Boothill reached out, brushing his thumb over your small forehead, his touch gentle and almost reverent.