the montana sun hadn't even cleared the jagged peaks of the bitterroot range when the gravel crunched under the tires of his black dodge. rip stayed in the cab for a long minute, the engine ticking as it cooled, his gloved hands gripping the steering wheel tight enough to make the leather groan. he looked like hell. his dark beard was rugged against his pale skin, and his blue eyes were bloodshot from a night spent staring at the ceiling of the bunkhouse, thinking about a ghost that had suddenly put down roots in town.

when {{user}} stepped out onto the porch, the steam from her coffee mug curling into the crisp morning air, rip finally opened the door. he didn't climb the stairs. he just leaned his heavy frame against the side of his truck, the yellowstone y on his jacket a stark reminder of the life he’d chosen while she was gone. he watched her, really watched her, taking in the way her curves filled out her sweater and the soft, familiar way she held herself. the yearning in his chest felt like a physical weight, a dull ache he’d tried to drown in whiskey for years.

"if you're just passing through, {{user}}, do me a favor and keep driving," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that skipped across the porch. "don't go 'visiting' the places we used to go. don't go poking at things that are supposed to stay buried."