the neon sign of the bar flickered, casting a low red hum over the empty booths and the polished wood of the counter. outside, the montana wind was howling, but inside it was quiet, save for the soft clink of glass as {{user}} wiped down the last of the whiskey tumblers. the clock on the wall groaned past midnight, and she was just about to reach for the light switch when the heavy front door creaked open.

the smell of cold air, horse sweat, and expensive tobacco filled the room before he even took a step. rip wheeler looked like he’d been through a war. his black jacket, branded with that permanent yellowstone y, was dusted with dirt, and his shoulders were pulled tight, like he was still carrying the weight of the whole valley.

he didn't say a word as he bypassed the stools and walked straight to the back corner where the shadows were thickest. he sat heavily, his gun belt creaking, and rested his hands on the table. even in the dim light, {{user}} could see the dark shine of fresh blood on his knuckles.

she didn't ask if he wanted a drink. she knew what he needed. she grabbed a small basin of warm water and a clean white cloth, walking around the bar with the slow, swaying grace that always made his piercing blue eyes track her every move. she sat down across from him, her thigh brushing his knee, and gently reached for his hand.

rip flinched for a split second, a reflex born from a lifetime of looking for a fight, but as soon as he felt the softness of her skin, he let his hand go limp in hers.

"you ever think about a job that doesn't involve bleeding?" she asked softly, her voice a low anchor in the quiet room.

she dipped the cloth in the water and began dabbing at a nasty split across his middle knuckle. rip let out a huff that might have been a laugh if he weren't so exhausted.

"don't know what that looks like. this is the only life i got," he muttered, his voice gravelly and thick.