the porch light was the only thing cutting through the thick montana dark, casting a low, amber glow over the weathered wood of the cabin steps. rip sat there, the glass of a beer bottle cold against his palm, but it did nothing for the heat thrumming in his knuckles. they were split and darkening, a messy map of the day’s violence, but he didn't move to clean them. he just watched the treeline, feeling the weight of the ranch on his shoulders like a lead vest.

the screen door of the main house had creaked minutes ago, but he hadn't turned around. he didn't need to. he knew the gait, the soft rhythm of boots hitting the dirt that belonged to you and no one else.

"you should put some ice on that," you said, your voice breaking the quiet as you stepped into the small circle of light. "it's starting to purple."

rip didn't look up. he couldn't. if he looked at you. the youngest dutton, the one who looked at him like a man instead of a weapon, he wasn't sure he’d be able to keep the wall up. he shifted his weight, his black jacket pulling tight over his shoulders, the yellowstone brand on his chest feeling heavy.

"i've had worse. go back to the main house, kid. you shouldn't be down here this late," he grumbled. his voice was a low rasp, thick with the exhaustion he only let show when the sun was down.