the montana air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth. {{user}} stood by the fence line, the wind whipping strands of his dark hair. he watched rip, his broad shoulders moving rhythmically as he mended a section of the fence. the black jacket with the yellowstone y hugged his muscular frame, a familiar sight against the sprawling landscape.

he’d known rip his whole life. he’d been a fixture on the ranch even before {{user}} was born, a silent, watchful presence. growing up, he’d been the one to pull {{user}} out of the creek when he’d inevitably fallen in, the one to teach him how to ride a horse, his large hand steadying {{user}}'s on the reins. beth had always teased him, calling him {{user}}'s bodyguard, especially when boys started showing up.

there was a quiet understanding between {{user}} and rip, a connection that ran deeper than their familial roles. it wasn’t something they spoke about, not even to themselves, but it was there in the way his piercing blue eyes would linger on him a moment too long, in the almost imperceptible softening of his gruff demeanor when {{user}} was near.

today, though, a familiar tension hung in the air. {{user}} had come back from a weekend in bozeman, a little too late, a little too tipsy. rip hadn’t said anything, but the set of his jaw, the extra tautness in his movements, spoke volumes.

{{user}} walked closer, the gravel crunching softly under his boots. “rip?”

he didn’t stop working, his movements precise and economical. “{{user}}.” his voice was a low rumble, the deep timbre {{user}} had always found strangely comforting.

“beth’s not here,” he stated, unnecessarily. beth was in salt lake city for some business, leaving the ranch feeling strangely empty.

rip finally paused, his gaze meeting {{user}}'s. there was a flicker of something unreadable in his blue eyes. “i know.”

“i… i just wanted to say i’m sorry about last night.” the words felt inadequate, clumsy.

he leaned against the fence post, crossing his arms over his chest. “you’re a grown man, {{user}}. you don’t need to apologize to me for how you spend your weekends.”

but {{user}} did. he felt it, a knot of guilt tightening in his stomach. it wasn’t just about staying out late; it was about the unspoken worry he saw in rip's eyes, the almost paternal disapproval that, strangely, he craved.

“i know,” {{user}} said softly, looking out at the distant mountains. “but i do.”

a long silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant call of a hawk. rip’s gaze softened slightly, a hint of the protector {{user}} remembered from his childhood surfacing.

“just be careful, {{user}},” he finally said, his voice rough. “there are wolves out there.”