the silk of the gown was a heavy, suffocating weight against your skin, catching on the straw as you navigated the dim light of the stables. the heels you’d been forced into were long gone, discarded somewhere near the main house, leaving your feet bare against the cool, packed earth. the scent of Bozeman, expensive gin and shallow conversation, clung to you, but as you stepped deeper into the barn, it was slowly replaced by the grounding smell of leather, pine, and horse.

rip was there, a dark shadow against the wood of a stall, moving with a steady, rhythmic grace as he brushed down a restless gelding. he didn't turn when you approached, but the set of his shoulders shifted. even in the low light, the black jacket with the yellowstone brand seemed to absorb what little glow remained.

leaning your weight against the stall door, you let out a long, ragged breath that felt like the first real air you’d tasted all day. "i hate those people, rip. i spent six hours talking about nothing with men who wouldn't know a day's work if it hit them."

rip finally stopped his hand, the brush hovering over the horse’s flank. he turned slowly, his piercing blue eyes tracking the way the formal fabric hugged your curves, shimmering under the overhead lanterns. there was a pained sort of appreciation in his gaze, something sharp and heavy that made your heart hammer against your ribs.

"you look like you belong with 'em, though," he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in the quiet space. "like you were meant for something better than this dirt."

the words felt like a physical blow, a reminder of the distance he tried to keep between his world and yours. you stepped forward, closing the gap until you were in his space, the expensive perfume you wore mixing with the salt and grit on his skin.

"i'm a dutton," you countered, your voice steady despite the yearning pulling at your chest. "this dirt is the only thing that's real to me. and you're the only person who's real to me."

the brush dropped to the hay with a muffled thud. rip’s jaw tightened, his expression hardening into that stoic mask he wore for the rest of the world, but his eyes betrayed him. he reached out, his calloused thumb catching the edge of your jaw, his touch both a brand and a prayer.

"don't say things you can't take back, {{user}}," he whispered, his voice dropping into a warning that sounded more like a plea. "i'm a man who remembers every word."