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Isabelle Stilinski-Hale had always thought mountains looked different beneath moonlight. During the day, they were solid things. Immovable. Ancient. You could see every ridge carved into their sides, every cluster of trees clinging stubbornly to stone, every scar where time and weather had cut through them. At night, they became something else.
Isabelle stood on the narrow overlook with her arms wrapped around herself, staring at the dark shape rising before her. The moon hung just above its highest peak, enormous and silver-white, bathing the mountain in enough light to make the patches of snow near the summit glow.
Everything below it disappeared into shadow. The world felt enormous from here. And Isabelle felt very, very small.
She heard the crunch of boots against gravel behind her but didn't turn around. Of course he'd found her. She'd known he would.
Peter Hale could find her in a crowded airport after she'd changed clothes, dyed her hair, covered herself in perfume, and hidden inside somebody else's suitcase. Not that she'd ever tested that particular theory. Yet.
"You know," Peter's voice drifted through the darkness, "when most wives storm dramatically out of a cabin in the middle of the night, they have the decency to slam the door."
Isabelle continued staring at the mountain. "I didn't storm."
"You did."
"I walked."
"With purpose."
"That's still walking."
"Angrily."
She finally glanced over her shoulder. Peter stood several feet away, hands buried in the pockets of his jacket. His hair was slightly disheveled, suggesting he'd dragged his fingers through it before coming after her. His expression carried its usual mixture of irritation and amusement, but Isabelle knew him too well.
There was worry underneath. She looked away again. "I didn't ask you to follow me."
"No, but after marrying you, I've discovered that invitations are largely ceremonial."
That almost got her. Her mouth twitched before she forced it still. Peter noticed. He stepped closer but didn't crowd her. That was another thing he'd learned over the years. Peter's instinct was always to close distance. Protect. Control. Fix. He hated leaving wounds open, whether they were physical or otherwise.
Isabelle sometimes needed to sit beside hers for a while. Peter had learned to let her. Mostly. He stopped beside her, following her gaze toward the mountain.
For several minutes, neither spoke. The silence wasn't uncomfortable. It rarely was with Peter anymore. Isabelle breathed deeply, letting the cold mountain air fill her lungs. Somewhere below the overlook, water moved through the valley. She couldn't see the river from here, but she could hear it faintly. "I used to think I'd have everything figured out by now."
Peter's head turned slightly. Isabelle kept looking forward.
"When?"
"Now."
"That's incredibly specific."
She gave him a sideways glare. Peter lifted one eyebrow. "Continue."
Isabelle sighed. "I don't know. When I was younger, thirty sounded..." She waved one hand vaguely. "Adult."
"You are an adult."
"I know."
"A reasonably functional one."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
She bumped her shoulder against his arm. Peter smiled faintly. Isabelle's smile faded again as she looked toward the moon. "I thought there would be some point where everything clicked. Like I'd wake up one morning and suddenly understand what I'm doing."
"With what?"
"Everything."
Peter waited. Isabelle swallowed. "Who I am. What I'm supposed to be doing. Whether I've made the right choices. Whether I'm wasting time. Whether I'm becoming the person I thought I'd be."
The words came easier once they started.
"I keep thinking about all the different versions of myself I've been. Who I was before I left Beacon Hills. Who I was when I came back. Who I was when you started chasing me around like an obnoxious wolf with no concept of rejection."
Peter looked offended. "I understood rejection perfectly."
"You ignored it."
"Understanding and respecting are different things."
She snorted. But the humor disappeared quickly. "I've changed so much."
"That's generally what happens when people continue living."
"Peter."
"Isabelle."
She turned toward him. He was watching her now. Not teasing or smirking. Just watching. Isabelle looked down at her hands. "What if I've changed too much?"
Peter frowned. "What does that mean?"
"I don't know."
"That's convenient."
She groaned. "Can you not Peter Hale your way through this?"
"No."
"Just once?"
"Absolutely not."
He turned fully toward her. "If you're going to wander onto a mountain in the middle of the night and have an existential crisis beneath a full moon, you're getting the full Peter Hale experience."
That pulled an actual laugh from her. It echoed strangely through the overlook before disappearing into the darkness. Peter's expression softened. "There she is."
Isabelle rolled her eyes, but she moved closer. Peter immediately opened his jacket enough for her to slip against him. She did. His arms closed around her. Warm, solid and familiar. Isabelle rested her cheek against his chest and listened to his heartbeat. "You ever think about who you would've been?"
Peter went still. "If everything hadn't happened?"
He knew exactly what she meant. The fire. His family. Laura. Talia. Derek. Kate. The hospital. The years of rage that had nearly consumed whatever remained of Peter Hale.
He looked toward the mountain. "Sometimes."
"What do you think?"
"I think it's pointless."
Isabelle pulled back enough to look at him. Peter sighed. "You asked."
"That doesn't mean you have to give me the cynical answer."
"It's not cynical." His thumb brushed absently along her arm. "That man doesn't exist."
"But he could have."
"No. He couldn't."
Isabelle frowned. Peter looked toward the moon. "Every decision creates another version of who you might have become. Every tragedy does. Every person you meet does. Every person you lose. If you start mourning every hypothetical version of yourself, you'll spend your entire life grieving people who never existed."
Isabelle stared at him. Peter glanced down. "What?"
"That was annoyingly wise."
"I'm frequently wise."
"No, you're frequently annoying."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive."
She smiled despite herself. Then her gaze drifted toward the mountain again. "What if I don't know who this version is?"
Peter studied her profile.
The wind caught several strands of her hair and swept them across her face. Isabelle pushed them away impatiently. Peter reached out and tucked one behind her ear. "You've always had this irritating belief that identity is something you're supposed to solve."
Her brow furrowed.
"Like a puzzle," he continued. "As though there's some final version of Isabelle hidden somewhere and if you make enough correct decisions, eventually you'll uncover her."
"Isn't there?"
"No." His answer came immediately.
Isabelle looked at him. Peter's eyes reflected silver beneath the moon. "You're not finished."
Something about those words landed harder than she expected. Peter touched her chin. "You won't be finished tomorrow. Or next year. Or twenty years from now. You'll change your mind. You'll discover things you love. You'll abandon things you thought you wanted. You'll make spectacularly stupid decisions."
"Excuse me?"
"I married you. I'm allowed to be realistic."
She smacked his chest. Peter caught her wrist before she could pull away and kissed her knuckles. "You'll make good decisions too," he continued. "Occasionally."
She glared.
Peter smirked, "You married me."
"Peter."
Peter continued with his thought, "And you'll change."
His teasing disappeared. "You should."
Isabelle stared at him. Peter lowered their joined hands between them. "The woman I married isn't exactly the woman standing here."
Her stomach tightened. Peter felt it immediately. His eyebrows rose. "Oh, don't."
"Don't what?"
"Turn that into something terrible."
"You literally just said —"
"I said you've changed. I didn't say I wanted the old version back."
Isabelle went quiet. Peter stepped closer. "I loved her."
The wind moved through the pines below them.
"I love you."
Her eyes burned. Peter's voice softened. "And I'll love whoever comes next."
Isabelle blinked rapidly. "That's disgustingly romantic."
"I know."
"I hate it."
"No, you don't."
"No," she admitted. "I really don't."
Peter smiled. Isabelle leaned against him again. For a while, they simply stood together beneath the moon. Her thoughts hadn't vanished. There were still questions. There would probably always be questions. (She was a Stilinski, after all.)
But suddenly they didn't feel like problems that needed immediate answers. Isabelle looked at the mountain again. "Do you know what I like about mountains?"
Peter sighed dramatically. "I suspect I'm about to find out."
"They look permanent."
"They aren't."
She frowned at him. "Could you let me finish one thought tonight?"
"You married a pedant."
"I married an asshole."
"Also accurate."
Isabelle shook her head. "They look permanent," she repeated. "But they're constantly changing. Weather changes them. Water changes them. Plants grow. Rocks break off. Snow melts. Trails appear."
Peter watched her.
"Still the same mountain," Isabelle said quietly. "Just... different."
Peter's lips curved. "There you are."
She looked at him. "What?"
"Figuring yourself out without my assistance."
"You literally followed me up here."
"Emotional support."
"You insulted me three times."
"Emotional support, Peter Hale edition."
Isabelle laughed. Then she looked upward. The moon had shifted slightly. Or maybe they'd simply been standing there longer than she'd realized. It no longer sat directly above the peak.
"Funny."
"What?"
"It looked like the moon was sitting on top of the mountain when I first came out here."
Peter followed her gaze. "And now?"
"Now it's moving away."
"The moon isn't moving away."
She narrowed her eyes. Peter reconsidered. "Metaphor. Right."
"Thank you."
He kissed her temple. Isabelle rested against him again. "Maybe that's the problem."
Peter waited.
"I keep looking for something permanent."
Her voice was barely louder than the wind. "A permanent version of me. A permanent plan. Some point where I can say, okay, this is it. I've figured it out."
Peter tightened his arms around her.
"But maybe there isn't one."
"No."
She looked up at him. "You're supposed to disagree."
"I won't lie to you just because you've finally reached the correct conclusion."
"Asshole."
"Mountain."
She blinked. "What?"
Peter nodded toward the enormous dark shape before them. "You're the mountain."
Isabelle stared. Peter's mouth twitched. "And apparently I'm the moon."
She burst out laughing. "Oh my God."
"What?"
"Nothing about you says moon."
"I'm mysterious."
"You're dramatic."
"Moonlight is dramatic."
"You're possessive."
"The moon controls tides."
Isabelle's laughter grew louder. Peter looked increasingly pleased with himself.
"You could be hairy once a month."
His expression dropped. Isabelle doubled over laughing.
"Take that back."
"No!"
"Isabelle."
She tried to escape, but Peter caught her around the waist. A squeal tore from her as he dragged her against him. "Peter!"
"Hairy once a month?"
"Full moon!"
"I am not some hormonal lunar Chia Pet."
That only made her laugh harder. Peter growled against her neck, his teeth scraping lightly over her skin.
Isabelle twisted in his arms. "Stop!"
"Apologize."
"Never."
"Stubborn woman."
"You married me!"
"An error in judgment."
"Too late now."
Peter stopped. His arms remained around her waist. Their laughter slowly faded. Isabelle looked up at him.
"Yeah," Peter said quietly.
His forehead rested against hers. "Too late now."
There was something in his voice that made her chest ache. Whatever else changed, this was real. Peter kissed her. It wasn't hungry or desperate. There was no teasing bite, no possessive growl.
Just Peter, her husband. Isabelle closed her eyes and leaned into him. When they separated, she stayed close.
"Ready to go back?"
She glanced toward the mountain one last time. The moon had traveled farther across the sky. Nothing had stopped for her crisis. The river continued below. The trees moved with the wind. The moon crossed the heavens. The mountain changed one invisible grain at a time. And Isabelle was changing too.
Maybe that wasn't something to fear. Maybe it was proof she was still moving. Still becoming. She slipped her fingers through Peter's. "Yeah."
They started toward the cabin. After several steps, Isabelle looked sideways at him. "Peter?"
"Hmm?"
"Thank you for following me."
His fingers tightened around hers. "Always."
She smiled. Then Peter added, "Although next time you decide to have a midnight identity crisis on a mountain, bring a coat."
"I have you."
"I am not outerwear."
"You're warm."
"I'm a person."
"Werewolf."
"Still a person."
"My heater."
Peter looked at her. Isabelle grinned. That particular smile appeared, the small, helpless one he never seemed capable of preventing when she called him hers.
He lifted their joined hands and kissed her fingers. "Yes, Belleza."
They continued down the trail together. Behind them, the mountain remained beneath the moon. Ancient but changing. Scarred but standing. And for the first time that night, Isabelle realized she didn't need to be finished either.