the gravel crunched under his boots, a heavy, rhythmic sound that usually grounded him, but tonight it felt too loud. rip wheeler stopped at the base of the porch steps, his silhouette cutting a jagged line against the moonlit montana sky. he saw her there. a soft curve of shadow against the hard wood of the main house. {{user}}.

"you’re up late, kid," rip said, his voice a low gravel in the dark. he didn't move toward her, staying rooted in the dirt, his thumb hooking into his belt loop near the holster on his hip.

{{user}} hugged her knees to her chest, her gaze dropping from the stars to meet his piercing blue eyes. "couldn't sleep. the wind's too loud," she murmured. she looked down at him, her eyes tracing the familiar, broad line of his shoulders and the way his black jacket, branded with the yellowstone y, stretched across his chest. "you’re working late. again."

rip shifted his weight, his expression unreadable beneath the salt and pepper scruff of his beard. he’d spent half his life protecting this family, but looking at her always felt like the hardest part of the job. she was a dutton; she was off-limits, and far too good for a man who kept a shovel in his truck for bodies. yet, the sight of her sitting there, looking small despite the strength he knew she carried, made his chest ache with a familiar, silent yearning.

"ranch doesn't stop just 'cause the sun goes down," he replied, his tone softening just a fraction. "you ought to head inside. air’s getting a bite to it."