the porch light was the only thing cutting through the thick montana dark, casting a low, amber glow over the wooden slats where you sat. the air was sharp with the scent of pine and the lingering cold of an early spring night. you pulled your cardigan tighter around your shoulders, staring out into the black expanse of the fields, feeling the weight of being a dutton in a house that felt too quiet.

the crunch of gravel under heavy boots broke the silence.

rip was heading back toward the bunkhouse, his silhouette unmistakable even in the shadows. the broad set of his shoulders, the steady, grounded gait of a man who carried the weight of the ranch on his back. he should have kept walking. he knew the rules, and he knew his place, but when his eyes caught the curve of your silhouette against the porch railing, his chest tightened.

he stopped at the bottom of the steps, his piercing blue eyes catching the light. he looked at the way the moon softened the lines of your face, and the ache he usually kept buried behind iron walls flared up, hot and demanding.

"it’s too cold to be out here without a coat," rip said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in the quiet air.

you looked down at him, a small, sad smile tugging at your lips. "i didn't think anyone was left awake to notice."

"i'm always noticing," he admitted. the honesty of it caught even him off guard, stripping away the foreman and leaving only the man who had spent years watching you from a distance.