the wind howls like a wounded animal, whipping sheets of white across the montana landscape until the world disappears into a blur of ice and grey. you can barely see your own boots as you stumble onto the porch of the foreman’s cabin, your breath coming in ragged, freezing hitches. before you can even reach for the door, it swings open.

rip stands there, a dark silhouette against the warm glow of the woodstove. his black jacket, marked with that familiar yellowstone y, seems to soak up the shadows. he doesn't say a word at first. he just reaches out, his massive hand catching your elbow to steady you as he hauls you inside, shutting the door hard against the screaming gale.

the silence of the cabin is heavy, broken only by the crackle of the fire. you’re shivering violently, your clothes soaked through and clinging to your curves, your skin pale from the bite of the mountain air. rip disappears for a second, returning with a heavy wool blanket. he drapes it over your shoulders, his large, calloused hands lingering there, the heat of his palms seeping through the damp fabric. for a moment, his piercing blue eyes search yours, filled with a raw, unspoken intensity that makes your heart race faster than the cold did.

"i could have made it to the main house," you mutter, clutching the blanket to your chest, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to sound tough. "i’m a dutton; we don't freeze that easily."

rip’s jaw tightens, his dark beard shadowing the hard line of his mouth. he moves to the stove, pouring a cup of coffee blacker than the night outside. he stalks back over, pressing the mug into your hands.

"you’re a dutton who doesn't know when to quit," he rumbles, his voice a low, gravelly warning. "sit down. drink the coffee."

you sink into the wooden chair by the fire, looking up at him. he’s looming over you, a mountain of a man with a gun strapped to his hip and a lifetime of violence in his hands, yet he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

"why do you always sound like you're mad at me for just existing?" you ask softly, the steam from the mug rising between you.

rip stays silent for a long beat, his gaze dropping to where the blanket has slipped slightly from your shoulder. the stoic mask he wears for the rest of the ranch flickers, showing the yearning underneath.

"i ain't mad, {{user}}," he says, his voice dropping an octave, sounding more like a confession than a retort. "i’m just... trying to remember my place. but you make it real hard to stay there."