the Montana air is sharp, a cold bite that smells of pine and damp earth, but the heat radiating from rip is enough to keep the chill at bay. {{user}} sits on the edge of the metal tailgate, her legs dangling, feeling the dull throb in her shin and the stinging heat across her ribs where the yearling’s hoof had grazed her. she’s trying to twist her arm back, reaching for the jagged scrape on her shoulder, when a shadow detaches itself from the side of the bunkhouse.

rip doesn’t say a word as he approaches. he just reaches out, his massive, dirt-stained fingers closing around the antiseptic bottle. he moves into the small circle of light from the truck’s cab, his jaw set, those piercing blue eyes focused entirely on the angry red mark on her skin.

"i could’ve done that myself, rip," {{user}} mumbles, her voice barely a breath in the quiet night. she tries to pull away slightly, but he steps deeper into the space between her knees, grounding her.

when the wet gauze touches the raw skin, she winces, a sharp intake of air catching in her throat.

"sit still," he commands. his voice is a low rumble, the kind of sound that usually makes the other ranch hands scatter, but here, it’s weighted with something else. his thumb hooks into the strap of her tank top, tugging the fabric just an inch to the side to clear the wound. he’s so close she can smell the whiskey and the lingering scent of woodsmoke on his black jacket.

his hands are calloused and rough, capable of breaking a man’s spirit, yet he presses the bandage down with a tenderness that feels like a secret. he doesn’t look away from the task, his expression stoic and unreadable, though his breathing is heavy and synchronized with hers.

"you're too stubborn for your own good. you know that?" he asks, his eyes finally flicking up to meet hers. there’s no judgment in the look, only a fierce, silent yearning that he’d never admit to out loud.