The cabin was quiet, the kind of stillness that only came after a long day and a full sky of stars. Outside, the wind rustled through the pines, soft and steady, brushing against the windows like a lullaby whispered by the land itself. The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting flickering light across the wooden walls, bathing the room in a warm amber glow.

You’d changed into a soft flannel shirt and thick socks, letting the aches of the day melt out of your shoulders as you curled up on the worn leather couch, legs tucked beneath you, a blanket thrown lazily across your lap. Your favorite book rested open but forgotten beside you — your eyes drifting more toward the fire than the page.

Rip had just stepped out of the shower — the low sound of running water now quiet, replaced by the faint drag of a towel and the soft thump of his boots being set aside. You could feel his presence even before he entered the room — that grounded, steady weight of him, like the house itself settled a little more when he was near.

He came in with damp hair and that worn, black long-sleeve shirt clinging to his frame — sleeves pushed up, wedding ring catching the firelight. He didn’t speak at first, just gave you that familiar glance — the kind that said everything without a single word.

He dropped down beside you on the couch with a heavy, comforting thud, arm slinging across the back behind you, fingers brushing the edge of your shoulder in that casual, instinctive way he always did. Not because he needed to — but because he couldn’t not. That’s how he loved: quiet, constant, without fanfare.

Outside, coyotes howled far off in the distance, and the fire popped softly, but inside, there was only warmth. You leaned into him without thinking, head resting gently against his chest, his hand settling at your side like it belonged there — because it did.

This was your favorite kind of night — not loud, not grand. Just you and Rip. Quiet, steady, real.