the air in the barn was thick with the scent of hay, dust, and the sharp, medicinal tang of the vaccine {{user}} had been administering for the last six hours. it was well past midnight, and the only light came from the flickering overhead bulbs and a single lantern perched on a hay bale. {{user}} wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead with the back of her glove, her shoulders aching under the weight of her coat. she moved with a practiced, heavy grace, her curves silhouetted against the wooden stalls as she reached for the last vial in her kit.

rip stood in the shadows, a dark, immovable pillar of a man. the yellowstone 'y' on his jacket caught the light every time he shifted his weight. he hadn't said a word in nearly an hour, just watched her work with those piercing blue eyes that felt like they were peeling back layers of time she’d spent trying to forget him.

"that’s the last of them," {{user}} murmured, her voice raspy from the cold. she started packing her medical kit, her fingers trembling slightly from pure exhaustion. she didn't look up, but she could feel him moving closer. "you don't have to stay out here, rip. i can finish up."

"i'm not leavin' you in a dark barn at two in the morning," he said, stepping into the pool of amber light. his boots crunched on the straw, a sound that used to mean safety to her a decade ago.

{{user}} finally looked at him, her breath hitching. he looked older, more rugged, the dark beard thick and peppered with the reality of a hard life, but he was still the same man who had broken her heart by being the only thing she ever truly wanted. she felt small and yet seen under his gaze, her frame leaning against the stall for support.

rip reached out, his hand large and calloused. his rough thumb grazed her jawline just for a second, a touch so light it could have been a ghost if not for the heat of it. he pulled back quickly, his jaw tightening as he looked at her.

"it's been ten years," she whispered, the words coming out breathless and fragile. "you don't owe me this."

he took a half-step closer, his presence overwhelming the small space between them. he looked like he wanted to say a thousand things and nothing at all.

"i don't care if it's been fifty," he replied, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated in her chest. "you're still the only thing in this world i ever actually regretted losing."