Two years had passed.
Colorado's mountains had changed colors twice, winters freezing the pines white and summers warming them into deep green. Time had moved in its usual way — slow, then suddenly too fast — and somewhere in that rush, Stiles had grown taller, stronger, sharper. His shoulders had broadened. His stance had steadied. His hands, once shaky with uncertainty, now moved with quiet, confident precision.
It was mid-August now.
The air around the cabin carried the sound of crickets and the faint scent of pine sap. The sun had dipped behind the mountains, leaving only a blue-orange afterglow through the window.
Stiles and Ronan sat across from each other at the small wooden dinner table, plates half-empty. The cabin was quiet except for the silverware clinking softly and the occasional creak of old wood settling.
High school would start on September 1.Two weeks.
Two weeks until Stiles would return to Beacon Hills — not as the boy who left, but as someone Ronan had trained, shaped, and tested.
Stiles poked at his food absentmindedly.He was thinking about everything — the training, the hunts, the mistakes he'd turned into skills.
And he could feel Ronan watching him.
Finally, Ronan exhaled, long and deep.A kind of breath Stiles rarely heard from him.
"Stiles," Ronan said quietly, setting his fork down, "there's something I need to tell you."
Stiles looked up. Ronan's tone was different — heavier, softer, almost brittle.
"What's going on?" Stiles asked.
Ronan didn't answer right away. He leaned back, eyes drifting to the small window beside them. Outside, the trees swayed gently.
"You're sixteen now," Ronan said. "Old enough to know the truth about me."
Stiles felt the air shift.Ronan never talked about himself. Never about his life before they met. Never about why he hadn't had a partner, a family, a home in years.
Stiles straightened.
"I'm listening," he said.
Ronan clasped his hands together on the table. When he spoke, his voice carried something Stiles had never heard from him before:
Pain.
"I had a son," Ronan began. "His name was Marcus."
Stiles froze.
Ronan had never even hinted about having a child. The thought alone stunned him.
"He… would've been your age," Ronan continued, "sixteen this year."
Stiles swallowed, unsure what to say. He stayed quiet, letting Ronan speak at his own pace.
"He lived with his mother," Ronan said. "We… weren't together anymore. Not for a long time." He gave a short, tired breath. "Not because we hated each other. Sometimes life just divides people."
Stiles nodded slowly.
Ronan rubbed a hand over his jaw, eyes distant.
"The village they lived in was small. Remote. Quiet."He paused. "Safe… or so I thought."
Stiles's chest tightened.
"One night," Ronan said, voice low, "a werewolf came through."
He didn't describe the attack.Didn't give any details.Didn't need to.
His silence said everything.
Stiles watched him carefully. Ronan wasn't tearing up, wasn't breaking — but something in his eyes had dimmed, like a light that had been flickering for years.
"That was when I understood," Ronan said evenly. "The hunter's life… isn't meant to coexist with family."
Stiles felt a shock of sadness.And anger.And confusion.
Ronan continued:
"If I had been there — maybe things would have been different. Maybe I could have stopped it. But hunters don't live normal lives. They move. They chase. They fight. They disappear. And my absence put them in danger."
Stiles finally found his voice."Ronan… I'm so sorry."
Ronan nodded once, accepting the words but not dwelling on them.
"That loss," Ronan said, "is why I trained you the way I did. Why I pushed you. Why I told you never to hesitate."
He lifted his gaze.
"And why I'm telling you now: don't follow my path."
Stiles blinked.
"What do you mean?"
Ronan leaned forward slightly.
"You're meant for more than this life," he said. "You're smart, you're loyal, and you care too much to become a ghost wandering from hunt to hunt. You deserve people around you. Real people. Friends. Family. A future."
Stiles swallowed hard.
"I don't want to lose anyone," he said quietly.
"That fear is good," Ronan replied gently. "But it shouldn't rule your life. Protecting the people you love doesn't mean leaving them behind."
Ronan took a slow breath.
"And that's why I'm telling you… I've taught you everything I can. You're ready."
Stiles felt something shift in his gut — pride and fear and acceptance mixing all at once.
"You think so?" he managed.
"I know so," Ronan said. "These last two years proved it."
He leaned back again, watching Stiles with an expression full of something almost fatherly.
THE TWO YEARS OF GROWTH
Ronan continued, "You've grown more in these two years than most hunters do in a decade."
Stiles sat quietly as Ronan listed everything.
"You've mastered distance combat," Ronan said. "Your accuracy is consistent. Your breathing stays steady under pressure. Your hand-to-hand work? Controlled. Focused."
Stiles felt warmth rise in his chest. He'd worked so hard. Every day. Every morning. Every night.
"You've tracked and handled more creatures than some hunters twice your age," Ronan continued. "You helped with three captures, assisted in four hunts, and—"
He hesitated.
Stiles immediately understood.
"The werewolf," Stiles said softly.
Ronan nodded. "Yes. You held your own. You stayed calm. You didn't freeze. You didn't hesitate."
Stiles remembered it vividly — the fear, the adrenaline, the moment he trusted himself completely for the first time.
"You're not the boy who flinched," Ronan said. "You're the young man who thinks, acts, and adapts."
Stiles lowered his eyes, humbled.
"And most importantly," Ronan added, "you never lost yourself. You didn't become ruthless. You didn't become cold. You learned how to be decisive without losing your humanity."
He gave Stiles a rare, small smile.
"That balance," he said, "is what makes you better than I ever was."
Stiles felt his throat tighten.
"Ronan…" he whispered.
Ronan raised a hand slightly.
"There's one more thing."
Stiles waited.
"When you go back to Beacon Hills," Ronan said, voice steady, "don't forget what I told you tonight. Put people first. Don't shut them out the way I did. Don't hide from life because of fear."
Stiles nodded slowly, deeply.
"And," Ronan added, "know that I'm proud of you."
For a moment, Stiles forgot how to breathe.
Ronan had never said anything like that before — not once in all the years they'd trained.
Stiles swallowed hard.
"Thank you," he said, voice cracking. "For everything."
Ronan's expression softened.
"Finish your dinner," he said quietly. "You'll need strength for the days ahead."
They ate in silence after that — not awkward silence, but the kind that settles into a home after truths have been spoken.
Outside, the mountains were dark.Inside, the cabin felt warmer than ever.
And Stiles knew:
His mentor had just given him the last piece of himself.