the montana air is sharp, the kind of cold that sinks into your bones and stays there, but you don't move from your spot on the porch steps. the wood is hard beneath you, a familiar grounding force as you watch the darkness of the valley begin to bleed into a bruised purple. you’ve spent the last three hours out here, ostensibly watching over a weak calf in the nearby pen, but mostly just breathing in the silence that only exists before the rest of the world wakes up.

the crunch of gravel under heavy boots tells you you’re no longer alone before the shadow even falls over you. rip doesn't say anything at first. he never does. he just looms there, a silhouette of denim and rugged determination, the yellowstone y on his black jacket catching the faint, dying glow of the porch light. he smells like old leather, expensive tobacco, and the lingering scent of the horses. a smell that, to you, has always meant home.

he settles against the railing, his movements heavy and deliberate. the gun strapped to his hip glints as he shifts his weight, his piercing blue eyes fixed on the horizon where the jagged peaks of the mountains are just starting to sharpen against the sky.

"sun’s gonna be up in an hour, {{user}}," he says, his voice a low rumble that vibrates in the quiet air. "you’re gonna be useless in the saddle if you don't close your eyes."

you pull your jacket tighter over your curves, tilting your head back to look up at him. his beard is thick, hiding the hard line of a mouth that rarely find a reason to smile, but his gaze is soft when it finally drops to meet yours.

"pot calling the kettle black, don't you think?" you retort softly, a small, tired smirk tugging at your lips. "i don't see you heading for the bunkhouse."

rip shifts, his broad shoulders blocking out the breeze. he doesn't look away this time. there's a gravity between the two of you, a pull that’s been there since you were a girl following him around the barns, growing heavier with every year that passed. he’s the ranch's enforcer, your father's shadow, and the only man who has ever made you feel like the center of a very small, very private universe.

"somebody’s gotta make sure the ranch doesn't drift away while the rest of 'em sleep," he mutters, though the conviction in his voice wavers just a fraction.

"is that why you're still standing here?" you ask, your voice barely a whisper, the question hanging dangerously in the space between you. "for the ranch?"

rip quietens. he looks at you, really looks at you, and for a second, the stoic foreman disappears, leaving behind the man who has spent a lifetime yearning for things he isn't sure he’s allowed to keep. he steps a fraction closer, his voice dropping to a gravelly pitch that makes your heart stutter.

"partly," he admits, the honesty of it hitting harder than any shouted confession ever could.