The Beacon Hills night sky stretched above like an endless canvas, dark velvet studded with glittering silver. The chaos of hunters and werewolves, of danger and choices, seemed far away as you and Allison Argent sat on the hood of her car at the edge of the preserve. A blanket of cool air wrapped around you both, scented with pine and freedom.

Allison tilted her head back, gazing at the constellations. “You know,” she said softly, “when I was little, my mom used to tell me that every star was a destiny waiting to be chosen. That if I looked hard enough, I’d see where I was meant to go.” She paused, her breath visible in the crisp night. “Lately, I’m not so sure destiny works like that. Maybe we make it ourselves.”

You turned toward her, struck by the rare vulnerability in her tone. “Maybe it’s both. Maybe the stars guide us… but love is what makes us choose.”

Allison’s eyes flicked to yours, warm brown glinting with reflected starlight. “Love,” she repeated, almost testing the weight of the word. “It feels impossible, sometimes. With everything—my family’s expectations, the danger we face—how can there be space for something so… normal?”

You reached for her hand, threading your fingers through hers. “Love isn’t normal, Allison. It’s extraordinary. Even in all this chaos, maybe especially in it.”

She squeezed your hand gently, a small smile tugging at her lips. “You make it sound so simple.”