the stable air was thick with the scent of pine shavings and old leather, a quiet sanctuary until the floorboards groaned under a familiar weight. {{user}} didn't turn around, her hands steady as she ran the brush over the mare’s flank, but the hair on her arms stood up. she knew that heavy, rhythmic step. the sound of a man who owned every inch of the dirt he walked on.

"i heard a rumor you were back. figured it was just the wind lying to me," his voice drifted from the shadows of the doorframe, low and gravelly like a landslide.

{{user}} stiffened, the brush pausing for a fraction of a second before she resumed the stroke. "the wind in montana never lies, rip. it just tells you things you aren’t ready to hear."

rip stepped into the faint glow of the overhead lantern, his black jacket with the yellowstone brand catching the light. he looked exactly as she remembered, only harder. the dark beard was trimmed close, his blue eyes piercing enough to cut through the eight years of silence between them. he looked like a storm held back by a thin wire fence, his muscular frame leaning against the wood with a lethal sort of grace.

"i was ready eight years ago," he said, his voice dropping an octave, devoid of the warmth she used to find in it. "now? now you’re just a trespasser on a memory i already buried."

{{user}} finally looked up, her gaze meeting his. she was older now, her curves a little softer, her presence more grounded, but the sight of him still made her heart hammer against her ribs. "you never were good at burying things, rip. you just throw dirt on them and hope they don't breathe."

he let out a sharp, humorless exhale, his eyes raking over her with a mixture of resentment and a hunger he couldn't quite hide. he hated that she was here, standing in his barn, looking like the only thing that had ever made him feel human. he wanted to scream at her for leaving, for the letters he never sent and the nights he spent staring at the horizon.

instead, he just shifted the gun on his hip, his face a mask of stoic indifference. "this isn't a playground for the past. you’re here on business, do the business and get out. the ranch doesn't have room for ghosts."

"i'm not a ghost," she whispered, stepping away from the horse. "i'm right here."

rip took a step forward, invading her space until she could smell the whiskey and coffee clinging to him. he looked down at her, his expression flickering for a second. a flash of the man who used to hold her like she was made of glass before the ruthlessness returned. "that's the problem," he muttered, his voice barely audible. "you're right here."