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The cave was older than memory. Its stone walls had been carved smooth by centuries of wind and water, hidden deep within the Preserve where even most werewolves rarely wandered. The entrance was narrow enough that Isabelle had doubted it was worth squeezing through. Now she understood exactly why Peter had brought her.
The ceiling opened high above them, broken by a jagged hole in the rock. Moonlight spilled through it like liquid silver, illuminating the cavern while leaving the edges wrapped in comforting darkness. Tiny pools reflected the light until it looked as though the stars themselves had fallen into the cave.
Isabelle slowly turned in a circle. "...Peter."
"Hm?"
"You've known about this the entire time?"
He leaned one shoulder against the stone wall, watching her instead of the scenery. "For about forty years."
She stopped and looked at him with mock offense. "Forty years."
"Approximately."
"You never thought to mention the magical hidden cave with an actual skylight full of stars?"
"I was saving it."
She laughed, the sound echoing softly around the chamber. "For what?"
"For someone worth bringing."
The teasing smile she wore softened into something quieter. "You've become annoyingly romantic."
"I blame my wife."
She walked over, slipping beneath his arm until she rested comfortably against his side. His fingers automatically found the small of her back. Neither of them spoke for several moments.
Above them, thousands of stars glittered through the opening in the ceiling. Without city lights, the sky seemed impossibly alive.
Isabelle tipped her head back. "I always forget..." she murmured.
"What?"
"How many there actually are."
Peter followed her gaze. "They've all been dead before."
She blinked. "...Well that got existential."
A quiet chuckle rumbled from his chest. "I mean it literally. Some of the stars you're seeing burned out hundreds... perhaps thousands... of years ago."
"So..."
"Their light is simply late."
She frowned thoughtfully. "We're looking into the past."
"In a manner of speaking."
She considered that for a long moment before smiling. "I kind of like that."
"Do you?"
"It means beautiful things don't disappear immediately."
Peter looked down at her. "They linger."
She nodded. "Even after they're gone."
For someone who hid behind Stilinski sarcasm, Isabelle had a remarkable habit of stumbling into profound truths without realizing it.
Peter brushed a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. "Yes," he said quietly. "They do."
She studied the stars again. "My mom used to tell Stiles and me that every person had a star."
Peter smiled faintly. "A popular story."
"I knew it wasn't scientifically true." She shrugged. "Didn't matter. I liked it anyway."
"What did your star do?"
She grinned. "It got hopelessly lost every five minutes."
"Accurate."
She elbowed him. "My brother's star probably got arrested."
"Also accurate."
She laughed again. "What about yours?"
Peter looked back toward the opening overhead. "My mother believed the stars were our ancestors."
"Really?"
He nodded once. "She would point to them and tell Talia and me that every Hale watched over the living."
His voice carried an unusual softness.
"When I was little..." He paused. "I believed I could wave."
Isabelle looked at him. "You waved at the stars?"
"Every evening."
"And?"
"I assumed they waved back."
She smiled so warmly it almost hurt him to look at. "I think they probably did."
Peter snorted. "I was six."
"I bet you were adorable."
"I most certainly wasn't."
"You absolutely were."
"I was a menace."
"You were an adorable menace."
He sighed dramatically. "My reputation continues to suffer."
She rose onto her toes and kissed his cheek. "Worth it."
Silence settled over them once more. A cool breeze drifted through the opening, carrying the scent of pine and distant rain. Somewhere outside, an owl called into the night.
Isabelle traced lazy circles across Peter's chest. "Did wolves ever... feel closer to the stars?"
He considered the question. "Not because they're stars."
"No?"
"We simply notice the night more than most."
"The smells?"
"The sounds. The moon. The air." He looked upward again. "The darkness isn't empty to us."
She rested her head against him. "I've always liked the night."
"I know."
"It feels..." She searched for the right word. "...honest."
Peter's eyebrow lifted. "Honest?"
"During the day everyone is performing." She gestured vaguely. "Working. Smiling. Pretending they're fine."
"And at night?"
"The masks get tired."
He thought about that. "I've never heard anyone describe it that way."
"Am I wrong?"
"No."
He wrapped both arms around her. "I think that's why wolves prefer it."
She smiled against his shirt. "I figured you'd say something poetic."
"I was going to say 'fewer idiots are awake.'"
She burst into laughter. "There he is."
"I have an image to maintain."
She tilted her face up toward him. "I love every version."
The words came so naturally she didn't seem to realize she'd said them aloud. Peter, however, heard every syllable.
His hand gently cupped her cheek. "You know..." he said quietly, "I've lived long enough to watch entire constellations change."
She blinked. "They actually move?"
"Very slowly."
"That's... weird."
"It is."
She studied him carefully. "Does it make you sad?"
He thought for a long while. "It used to."
"And now?"
Peter looked from the stars back to the woman standing in his arms. "No."
"No?"
"I've finally learned that change isn't always loss."
A smile slowly spread across Isabelle's face. "Because of me?"
"Among other reasons."
"Liar."
"I am."
"You mean because of me."
He leaned down until their foreheads touched. "...Yes."
She kissed him gently. Just quiet affection beneath an endless sky. When they finally separated, Isabelle looked upward once more. "I think this might be one of my favorite places."
Peter smiled. "I suspected it would be."
She slipped her hand into his. "Can we come back?"
"As often as you'd like."
She squeezed his fingers. "Good."
"Good?"
"Because one night..." She looked through the opening where countless stars shimmered overhead. "...I'd like to grow old with you under this exact sky."
Peter stared at her for a long moment. A man who had survived fire, betrayal, loneliness, and grief. Yet somehow it was those simple words that stole his breath. He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles.
"My darling," he murmured, his voice almost lost beneath the whisper of the wind, "every star in this sky could burn out..."
His blue eyes met hers. "...and I would still know exactly where home is."