Boothill

The evening air was sharp as you leaned over the titanic’s railing, watching the sun’s last light sink below the horizon. Flickering lights from the third-class deck below caught your eye—a lone figure sat cross-legged, a wide-brimmed hat tipped low over his face as he hunched over a worn notebook, sketching with quick, skilled strokes.

Curiosity got the better of you, and you took a few careful steps down toward the lower deck, drawn by the smell of charcoal and the rustling pages. “Excuse me,” you spoke up, startling him. He looked up, eyes narrowing beneath his hat in a wary but undeniably piercing stare.

“Sorry, ma’am,” he muttered, tipping his hat with a slight nod as he shut the notebook quickly, as if not expecting to be interrupted.

“No, no, don’t stop,” you insisted, glancing at the notebook now cradled against his chest like some prized possession. “I saw you drawing from up there.” You gestured to the railing. “It’s… well, it’s incredible, actually.”

The cowboy—Boothill, you’d heard one of the stewards call him earlier—shifted uncomfortably, the edges of a faint blush touching his rugged cheeks. “Just somethin’ I do to pass the time,” he replied, brushing it off with a shrug.

“But they’re beautiful.” You glanced pointedly at the corner of a sketch peeking out, a figure both elegant and raw. “Would you… consider drawing me?”

His gaze snapped back to you, unsure and surprised. “Are you serious right now?”