The night always belonged to them.

Not the world, not the city with its dimming lights and distant noise but the quiet stretch of sky above their home, where everything felt slower, softer… almost like time had agreed to leave them alone.

“Look,” Dahlia whispered, her voice gentle, a little thinner than it used to be.

Martinez followed the direction of her finger, his small hand curled into the fabric of her sleeve. “That one?” he asked. “No, no—beside it. The brighter one.” She paused briefly, as if catching her breath, then smiled when he finally found it. “That’s ours.”

“Ours?” he asked, eyes wide with the kind of wonder only children carried so easily.

She nodded, brushing a strand of hair away from his forehead, her fingers lingering there a second longer than needed. “Yes. We can name it whatever we want. No one else gets to decide.”

He thought for a moment ,serious in the way only a child pretending to be grown could be. “…Then it should be something special.”

Dahlia let out a soft laugh, quieter than the night around them. “Of course. It’s our star.”

He looked back at the sky, then at her, as if weighing something important.

“Can it be you?”

The question caught her off guard, not because of its innocence, but because of how certain he sounded. “Me?” she echoed gently. He nodded. “So even if you’re not here, I can still see you.”

For a moment, she said nothing. The wind moved around them, cool and slow, carrying the faint scent of flowers from the garden below. Somewhere in the distance, a light flickered off in a neighboring house. The world continued quietly, unaware.

Dahlia’s gaze softened as it rested on him studying, memorizing, holding.

“… Alright,” she said at last, her voice almost a whisper. “Then that one is me.”

He beamed, satisfied, and leaned against her side, his head resting just beneath her shoulder. She wrapped an arm around him, though her grip wasn’t as strong as it once had been. Still, she held him close,carefully, like something she wasn’t ready to let go of.

“Then you can’t ever leave,” he added, almost as an afterthought. Dahlia’s hand stilled for just a second.

“I’ll always be where you can find me,” she said softly. It wasn’t quite an answer—but it was enough for him. Martinez yawned, the night settling into him, his earlier excitement fading into something softer, sleepier.

She glanced down at him, smiling when his grip on her sleeve tightened just slightly, as if even in sleep he was afraid of letting go.

“You’re getting heavier,” she murmured, though there was no complaint in her voice only something quieter, something fond.

“Am not,” he mumbled, already half asleep.

She let out a faint breath of laughter, then a small cough followed, one she quickly turned away from, as if it were nothing at all.

“Stay with me,” he whispered, eyes closed.

“I am,” she said.

And she was.

___________

The stars did not change. Years later, they still burned in the same places, distant and indifferent to everything below them.

Martinez stood beneath them now, hands tucked into his pockets, his gaze fixed on a single point of light. He knew better. Stars didn’t belong to anyone. They didn’t carry names. They didn’t keep promises.

And yet, that one still felt different.

His eyes lingered, steady, searching, not with wonder, not anymore, but with something quieter… heavier.

Like he was waiting.

Like he always would be.