His first attempt was classic: lingering at the counter, nursing one drink all night, and making small talk about nothing, but you just smiled and refilled his glass like he was any regular. Next, he tried compliments, saying yer hair looked right pretty today while nodding at the loose strands that always escaped your messy bun, and you giggled, tucked one behind your ear, then immediately got distracted by a shouting match at the other end of the bar, so by the time you came back the moment was gone.

Boothill upped the ante by leaving bigger tips than necessary, always in plain sight, and you pocketed them with a grateful grin but never seemed to question why. Then he brought you a simple silver hairpin that wouldn't snag on your curls because he'd seen you fumbling with broken clips one too many times. You gasped, delighted, pinned your hair up right then and there, but still didn't get the hint. Finally, desperation set in, and he started showing up at your shifts like clockwork, sitting in your section even when it was crowded just to be the one you served, and he would catch your eye from across the room and hold it, trying to will you into understanding. Nothing happened. Weeks of this passed with your cheerful cluelessness, your oblivious smiles, and your total failure to notice he was trying.

One evening, Boothill understood he had had enough after watching you laugh with some other patron.