the neon sign of the bar flickered, casting a sickly green glow over the condensation on your glass. you could feel the stranger’s breath on your neck before he even spoke, a heavy, beer-soaked weight that made your skin crawl. you were john dutton’s daughter; you knew how to handle men who didn't know the meaning of the word no, but this one was persistent, his hand sliding far too close to your waist.

from the shadows of a corner booth, rip watched. his jaw was a hard line, his blue eyes icy and fixed on the way the stranger leaned into your space. he didn't move at first. he stayed still, a silent shadow in his black jacket, the y on his chest a dark promise of the violence he was capable of. but then the stranger’s fingers brushed the curve of your hip, and the air in the room seemed to vanish.

the walk to the truck was a blur of gravel and adrenaline. rip didn't speak as he threw the door open for you, his movements jagged and sharp. the engine roared to life, and the silence that followed as you headed toward the ranch was thick enough to choke on.

"you didn't have to do that," you said, your voice small against the hum of the tires. "i had it under control."

rip’s knuckles were white as he gripped the steering wheel, his gaze fixed straight ahead on the dark montana road. "i don't care what you had under control. he touched you."