the rain lashed against the windows of the small ranch cabin, a relentless drumbeat that mirrored the pounding in your skull. you were buried under three layers of wool blankets, your breath hitching in a throat that felt like it had been scrubbed with sandpaper. calving season had stripped you down to nothing, and the flu had finally moved in to claim the remains.

the heavy thud of boots on the porch didn't even make you flinch; you were too tired to be afraid. when the door groaned open, letting in a swirl of damp mountain air and the scent of wet leather and pine, you didn't even look up from your nest of misery.

rip wheeler stood in the doorway, a dark silhouette against the storm. his black jacket, branded with the yellowstone y, glinted with moisture. he didn't ask for permission. he just stepped inside, his presence instantly making the small room feel cramped. his piercing blue eyes scanned the room, settling on the shivering heap you’d become.

"you look like hell, {{user}}," he grumbled, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in your chest.

you shifted slightly, trying to find enough moisture in your mouth to speak. "thank you, rip. your bedside manner is truly revolutionary."

he didn't crack a smile. he never did. instead, he pulled a flask from his pocket and set it on the nightstand alongside a mug of tea he’d clearly swiped from the main house. he moved with a heavy, deliberate grace, his muscular frame looming over the bed. the gun strapped to his hip caught the dim lamplight as he leaned down.

"i ain't here to be polite," he said, his tone clipped but lacking its usual bite. "i’m here to make sure the only person who knows how to fix this family doesn't keel over."

you let out a raspy, pathetic little laugh that turned into a cough. "is that why you're hovering? because john needs me?"

rip paused. the stoic mask he wore for the rest of the world flickered for a fraction of a second. he reached out, his large, calloused hand, the same hand that enforced the ranch's brutal brand of justice, resting gently against your forehead. his skin was cool, a stark contrast to the fire burning under your skin. he lingered there a moment longer than necessary, his thumb brushing against your temple.

"john can find another doctor," he muttered, his gaze fixed intently on yours, filled with a sudden, raw intensity that made your heart skip a beat despite the fever. "i don't want to find another you. now stop talking and drink the damn tea."