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Isabelle Stilinski-Hale hated Valentine’s Day.
She hated it with a devotion that bordered on religious.
It wasn’t the love part — Isabelle loved love. She loved fiercely, loudly, with her whole self. She loved her pack, her family, her friends, her husband. Love, to her, was instinctual. It was protection, sacrifice and showing up when it mattered. It was bringing food when someone forgot to eat. It was standing watch through the night. It was knowing someone’s tells, moods and scars.
Love was not a pink-washed aisle in a grocery store screaming BUY THIS OR YOU DON’T CARE ENOUGH.
February 14th could rot. Lupercalia, on the other hand...
Now that made sense.
Ancient. Messy. Bloody, once upon a time. A celebration of wolves and fertility and bonds and protection. A holiday that acknowledged desire, instinct and devotion without wrapping it in cellophane and a $9.99 price tag. Isabelle had dragged the pack into it years ago, barely a year after her shared bite, still raw, slightly feral and learning how to breathe with fangs.
She’d stood in the loft, hands on her hips, chin lifted in defiance, and declared it appropriate. Derek had frowned. Stiles and Scott had googled it immediately. Lydia, of course, had been intrigued. Peter smirked and shook his head.
But it stuck.
February 13th through the 15th belonged to them now. Pack dinners. Fires. Running. Rituals that were half real and half what Isabelle made up because it felt right in her bones. Love, loyalty, hunger. Packs didn’t need a single day.
Which was why Isabelle was deeply irritated that she was currently standing in the kitchen, arms crossed, staring at her husband with narrowed eyes as the calendar with the 14th circled in red mocked her from the wall.
February 14th. Valentine’s Day. Their first Valentine’s Day as a married couple.
She blamed Lydia entirely.
“This is ridiculous,” Isabelle muttered, pacing barefoot across the hardwood. “We have Lupercalia. We’ve always had Lupercalia.”
Peter Hale leaned back against the counter, arms folded, expression infuriatingly amused. He hadn’t said a word. Not one. Which somehow made it worse.
“You’re smirking,” she accused, stopping in front of him.
“I always smirk,” Peter replied mildly.
“That’s not helpful.”
“Neither is pretending this doesn’t bother you.”
She scowled. “It doesn’t bother me.”
Peter arched a brow. She huffed. “Okay, it bothers me on principle. Why does there have to be one specific day to prove you love someone? Isn’t that supposed to be all year? All the time? Why one fucking day?”
Peter’s smile softened, not enough to lose its edge, but enough to mean something. “Commercialization,” he said. “Capitalism. Florists. Pick one.”
She pointed at him triumphantly. “Exactly.”
“And yet,” he continued, “you’re the one glaring at me like I’ve committed a crime.”
“Because you’re suspiciously calm.”
“Am I?”
“Yes. Which means you’ve either planned something or Lydia has.”
Peter said nothing. Isabelle’s eyes narrowed further. “Oh no.”
Peter pushed off the counter and took a step closer, his presence crowding her space in that way that always made her spine straighten and her pulse jump.
“What did you plan, Mr. Hale?” she asked, squinting up at him.
His smirk sharpened.
“After the pack dinner tonight,” he said smoothly, “planned by Stiles and Lydia, by the way —”
“I knew it.”
“— I’m taking you to your clearing.”
Her irritation faltered, replaced by confusion. “My clearing?”
Peter chuckled, low and warm, clearly delighted. “Yes.”
Isabelle tilted her head, hair sliding over her shoulder. “Why?”
He leaned down, mouth brushing her ear, voice dropping into something darker, silkier. A growl threaded through his words, felt more than heard.
“My plan,” he murmured, “is to remind my wife exactly why she might want to learn to like Valentine’s Day...at least a little.”
Her breath hitched despite herself.
“And how,” she asked carefully, “do you plan to do that?”
Peter’s lips curved against her skin as he whispered, “I’m going to rut you up against that old oak tree until you scratche my back and scream my name.”
Isabelle froze. Then she groaned.
“Gods damn it,” she muttered, pressing her forehead against his chest. “I hate that you do this.”
“Do what?”
“Make me forget why I’m mad.”
Peter laughed softly, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her in. “You weren’t mad at me,” he said. “You were mad at a calendar.”
She grumbled something unflattering into his shirt, but her arms slid around his waist anyway.
The pack dinner was predictably chaos.
Stiles had gone all out, because of course he had. There were candles (battery-operated, because Derek), red napkins, and a banner that read HAPPY LU—VALEN—THING?? Lydia had brought wine. Scott had brought flowers and then panicked when Isabelle stared at them for too long before bursting into laughter.
“For the table,” Scott said helplessly.
“They’re fine,” Isabelle assured him, still laughing. “I don’t hate flowers. I hate expectations.”
Peter, infuriatingly, had presented her with a small box midway through dinner. She opened it suspiciously and then softened despite herself.
Venchi.
Dark chocolate. The expensive kind. Her weakness. She looked up at him, caught between annoyance and affection. “You did this on purpose.”
“Obviously,” Peter replied.
It was subtle. It always had been. No hearts. No cards. Just chocolate he knew she loved, on a day she hated. His quiet acknowledgment without bowing to the holiday itself.
The fire burned late. Laughter echoed through the loft. Lupercalia bled into the night like it always did: stories, teasing, a sense of belonging that had nothing to do with romance and everything to do with pack.
Eventually, one by one, they drifted away.
Peter didn’t say anything as he took Isabelle’s hand and led her outside. The night was cold, sharp with winter, the moon high and watchful. They didn’t drive. They walked, hands brushing, steps falling into rhythm as the woods swallowed them whole.
Her clearing waited just as it always had. The old oak stood at its center near the creek, massive and ancient, bark rough beneath her palm when she reached out. This place had held her secrets, her tears, her transformation into something stronger than she’d ever been.
Peter watched her with quiet intensity.
“This,” he said softly, “is why we didn’t need Valentine’s Day.”
She turned to him. “Because love isn’t a performance.”
“It’s instinct,” he corrected. “It’s choosing each other when no one is watching.”
She stepped closer. “Because wolves don’t ask permission to want.”
His eyes darkened. He cupped her face, pressing his forehead to hers. The kiss he gave her was slow, claiming, full of promise rather than spectacle. The kind of kiss that spoke of vows made and kept.
“I still hate Valentine’s Day,” Isabelle murmured.
Peter smiled against her mouth. “I know.”
“But,” she added, fingers curling into his jacket, “I don’t hate you.”
His laugh was low and pleased. “Fortunate for me.”
The woods hummed around them. The night closed in, intimate and wild.
Love didn’t need a card.
And Isabelle, begrudgingly, let herself enjoy the 14th, just a little, on her own terms.