the gala was a sea of shimmering silk and artificial laughter, a world that felt entirely alien to the dirt and cedar of the dutton ranch. rip felt like a caged animal in his suit, the fabric pulling tight across his shoulders as he navigated the crowd. he hated the way the lights caught the gold of the champagne flutes and the way everyone smelled of expensive perfume instead of pine and sweat. his eyes scanned the room with a hunter’s precision until they landed on you.

you were standing near the marble island in the kitchen, a quiet sanctuary away from the main event. the deep green dress hugged your curves in a way that made his chest ache, the silk spilling over your hips like water. you were laughing, a real genuine sound, at something a man in a crisp, gray suit was saying. rip watched from the shadows of the hallway, his jaw tightening as he saw the stranger’s hand ghost near your elbow. he waited, a silent sentinel, until the man finally took his leave.

the moment the stranger was gone, rip stepped into the light of the kitchen. his heavy boots felt loud on the tile, even though he moved with a predator’s grace.

"you look like a stranger in that dress," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards.

you didn't jump, but your posture stiffened. you leaned back against the counter, your hands smoothing the fabric over your thighs in a gesture that was half-nerves, half-defiance.

"it’s called 'moving on,' rip. you should try it. it doesn't involve denim," you countered, meeting his piercing blue eyes with a steady gaze that didn't quite hide the flicker of history between you.

rip didn't back down. he stepped into your space, closing the distance until the air between you turned heavy and thick with the scent of his cologne and the underlying heat of the ranch. his presence was an anchor, pulling you back into his orbit.

"i don't care about the dress," he growled, his voice dropping an octave as he loomed over you. "i care that he’s looking at you like he knows you. he doesn't."

"and you do?" you challenged, your voice trembling just enough to betray the wall you were trying to build.

rip leaned down, his face inches from yours, his breath warm against your skin as he spoke near your ear. "i know the way you breathe when you're scared, and i know you hate the taste of champagne. that's a head start he'll never catch up to."