the air in the stables was thick with the scent of hay, leather, and the looming weight of tomorrow. the only light came from a single lantern hanging by the tack room, casting long, dancing shadows against the wooden slats. rip didn't look up when he heard the familiar crunch of boots on the dirt floor. he knew the cadence of your walk better than he knew the back of his own hand.

"thought you'd be packed by now," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated in the quiet space. he was leaning against a stall door, his large frame silhouetted by the dim glow. the black jacket with the dutton brand seemed to absorb the shadows around him, making his piercing blue eyes look even sharper.

you stopped a few feet away, crossing your arms over your chest as if to hold yourself together. "i am. mostly. just couldn't sleep."

rip finally turned, his gaze raking over you with a slow, heavy intensity that made the breath hitch in your throat. he reached out and clicked on a small, battered radio sitting on a hay bale. the static cleared into the slow, mournful drawl of a steel guitar, filling the silence between you like a physical thing.

he didn't ask. he just stepped into your space, his presence massive and solid. his hand, calloused and warm, slid firmly onto the small of your back, pulling you flush against the rough denim of his shirt and the sturdy, muscular lines of his chest.

"i didn't think you were the type for slow dances," you teased, though your voice was thick and betrayed the sting of tears behind your eyes.

rip’s other hand came up, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a tenderness that felt almost dangerous. he didn't smile, he rarely did, but the look in his eyes was more than a confession. it was a claim.

"i’m not," he muttered, his head dipping low so his dark beard brushed your temple. "i’m the type for you. there’s a difference."