the air in the bunkhouse was thick with the scent of pine, cheap beer, and woodsmoke, vibrating with the frantic pull of a fiddle that seemed to echo the restless thrumming in rip’s own chest. he stayed back in the deepest shadows of the porch, the brim of his hat low, his back against the rough-hewn timber. he felt like a ghost haunting his own life, watching the light from the string lights spill across the dirt like spilled gold. it caught on you as you moved, weaving through the chaos of ranch hands and music, and every time you laughed, he felt the sound like a physical weight in his lungs.

he didn't see you approach so much as he felt the shift in the atmosphere, the way the air seemed to settle and warm as you leaned against the railing beside him. the glow of the lights illuminated the soft curve of your cheek and the way your hair caught the amber radiance of the party. you looked like something that didn't belong in a place this hard, and yet, you were the only thing that made the dirt and the blood feel worth it.

"one dance, rip," you said, your voice cutting through the noise of the party with a gentle teasing edge. "i won't even tell kayce you enjoyed it."

rip didn't move. his blue eyes remained fixed on the horizon where the montana mountains cut a jagged black line against the stars. he could feel the cold weight of the gun on his hip, a constant reminder of who he was and what he had to do to keep a place like this standing. he was a shadow, a branded man, and you were the light he wasn't supposed to touch.

"i don't dance," he replied, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that barely carried over the music. "especially not with the boss's daughter. i've got enough scars, {{user}}."