the dust kicked up in small, swirling clouds around the tires of the truck, the only sound in the quiet morning besides the distant lowing of cattle. the sun was just beginning to crest over the montana peaks, painting the sky in bruised purples and cold golds, but rip wasn't looking at the view. he was looking at the horizon, his jaw set so tight it looked like it might snap. his black jacket, the yellowstone y stark against the fabric, felt heavier than usual.

"the truck’s gassed up," he said, his voice a low rumble that barely carried through the crisp air. he kept his eyes fixed on a fence line he’d repaired a dozen times, refusing to meet her gaze. "checked the oil myself. tires are good to go."

{{user}} stood beside him, her coat pulled tight against the morning chill. she felt the weight of the silence between them, a thick, heavy thing full of all the words they never quite managed to say. she reached out, her hand hovering just inches from the rough sleeve of his jacket, before she lost her nerve and pulled back.

"thank you," she whispered, her voice trembling just enough for him to notice. "i have to try this, rip. i can't just wonder 'what if' for the rest of my life. there's more out there than just dirt and cattle."

rip turned then, the movement slow and deliberate. a bitter, lopsided smile pulled at his mouth, though his piercing blue eyes remained shadowed and hard. he looked at her, really looked at her, and the stoic mask he wore for the rest of the world slipped just a fraction.

"you’re goin’ to a place where the stars don't shine because the streetlights are too bright," he said, stepping closer until she could smell the faint scent of coffee and tobacco clinging to him. "you think those people are gonna look out for you? they don't know what you're worth. they won't see you, not the way people here do."

he reached out, his hand rough and calloused from years of breaking horses and holding the ranch together, and cupped her face. his thumb traced the line of her jaw with a tenderness that felt like a punch to the gut. it was the most he’d ever let her in, a silent admission of the yearning he’d kept buried under his ribs for years.

"but if you get there and you realize the air tastes like exhaust and the people are hollow..." he leaned in, his forehead almost touching hers, his voice dropping to a jagged whisper. "you don't call. you don't send a letter. you just drive back. the gate stays unlocked for you. always."