the jukebox hummed low, a gravelly country ballad filling the empty space of the bar as the neon beer signs flickered for the last time that night. {{user}} wiped down the mahogany wood of the counter, the familiar ache in her feet a reminder of the long shift. she was a vision of soft curves and tired smiles, her hair slightly messy from the humidity of the crowded room. she moved toward the front door, the ring of her keys jingling in the quiet, intent on flipping the sign to closed and finally heading home.

she didn't hear him move. rip wheeler was a shadow in a black jacket, a man who carried the weight of the dutton ranch in the set of his heavy shoulders. he was leaning against the edge of a booth, his piercing blue eyes tracking her every move with a quiet, burning intensity. as she passed him, his large, calloused hand reached out, catching her wrist with a grip that was firm but surprisingly careful.

"dance with me. just one," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in his chest.

{{user}} stopped, a small, breathless laugh escaping her as she looked down at his hand and then back up at his stoic face. he looked every bit the part of the ranch's enforcer. the dark beard, the gun on his hip, the sharp blue eyes that rarely softened for anyone.

"the floor is sticky, the lights are flickering, and i’m pretty sure you don't dance, rip," she teased softly, though her heart hammered against her ribs. she felt small next to him, but never unsafe; there was a protective aura around him that always seemed to pull her in.

rip didn't let go. he stepped closer, the scent of leather, tobacco, and expensive whiskey enveloping her. his thumb brushed against the pulse point in her wrist.

"i don’t. not for anyone else," he admitted, his gaze dropping to her lips before returning to her eyes.