the floorboards of your cabin groaned under the weight of a man who looked like he’d been carved out of the very montana mountains he protected. rip stood in the threshold, his black jacket dusted with the grit of the ranch and the shadow of his hat hiding the exhaustion in those piercing blue eyes. he moved with a heavy, deliberate grace, though tonight his broad shoulders seemed to carry more than their usual share of the dutton legacy.

you stood there, your hand resting against the wood of the door, the cool night air biting at your skin. as the ranch’s doctor, you were used to seeing him at odd hours, usually with a split lip or a jagged gash that needed your needle and thread. but there was no blood tonight, just the low, rhythmic sound of the ranch breathing behind him and the sharp, metallic scent of the gun at his hip.

"rip? it’s two in the morning. if you aren’t dying, you’ve got terrible timing," you murmured, your voice thick with sleep but softened by a familiarity that had grown between you over the months.

he didn't move at first, his gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder before it finally dropped to yours. "wasn't sure where else the air felt quiet enough to breathe, doc," he rasped. the roughness in his voice hit you in the chest, a rare crack in the stoic armor he wore like a second skin.

you stepped back, pulling the door wider to let the heat of the cabin spill out into the dark. your own reflection in the hallway mirror caught a glimpse of your soft curves and messy hair, a stark contrast to his rugged, intimidating frame. "i have coffee, or bourbon. your pick."

"bourbon," he said, finally stepping inside. the cabin suddenly felt much smaller with him in it, his presence filling the room. "and maybe a minute of your time. just to remember what 'normal' looks like."