the clinic was quiet, the only sound the low hum of the refrigerator holding the vaccines and the wind whistling against the montana siding. the clock on the wall ticked past midnight, casting long, rhythmic shadows across the linoleum floor. you were packing up your bag, your shoulders aching from a long day of treating everything from heat exhaustion to a horse kick, when a heavy shadow blocked the light from the hallway.

rip stood in the doorway, his silhouette imposing and broad. his black jacket, marked with the yellowstone brand, was caked in dust and dark, wet patches that didn't look like water. his breathing was heavy, a jagged rhythm that broke the silence of the room.

"we're closed, rip," you murmured, not looking up yet as you snapped your bag shut. "even for the foreman."

"wasn't planning on making an appointment," he grunted, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in the small space. he stepped into the light, and you saw the way he favored his right side, his hand pressed firmly against his shoulder.

you sighed, leaning against the cold metal of the exam table and crossing your arms over your chest. "rip, if you keep stitching yourself up with fishing line, i’m going to start charging you double for the repairs. sit down."

he hesitated, his piercing blue eyes tracking your movements with a weary intensity, before he moved to the edge of the table. the smell of leather, sweat, and iron followed him. as you reached out to peel back the ruined fabric of his shirt, the bloodied cotton stuck to a jagged tear in his skin.

"didn't want to wake you," he muttered, his jaw tight as the air hit the wound. "it’s just a scratch."