It was late. The sort of late where the air didn’t move, and the night pressed in soft and close, heavy with crickets and grass and the faint burn of a candle stub melting beside the telescope. You and James had long stopped working on the astronomy project. The notes were finished, the stars mapped, the diagrams scrawled neatly in both your handwriting. But neither of you had gone home.

You were lying flat on your back, arms behind your head, blinking slow at the sky. The telescope was abandoned next to you, lens pointed at nothing. James sat cross-legged beside you, legs brushing yours every now and again. He hadn’t said much for a while. Just stared, tapped his fingers softly against his knee.

There were soft circles under his eyes from too many nights staying up, but he still looked golden in the moonlight, cheek resting against his hand, curls falling low on his forehead, always tilted slightly toward you.

Then he said your name. Quiet. Measured. Like he wasn’t sure he had permission.

You turned your head slightly, and that was all he needed. He reached into his coat pocket. Fished around for a second, pulled something out, then hesitated. His fingers curled around it, knuckles pale.

When he opened his hand, it was a ring. Small. Weather-warmed bronze, the face of it carved into a sun, clean, deliberate lines etched by hand. You could see the way the rays splayed unevenly outward, crooked in a way that made them feel real. Like someone had made it while thinking about something they couldn’t explain.

“I made this last winter,” James said, and his voice was slower than usual, more gravel than spark. “Was gonna give it to you on your birthday, then I changed my mind. Kept changin’ my mind, actually. Thought maybe it was stupid.”

He glanced at you, then back to the ring. Rolled it gently between his fingers, over and over again. “But I wanted you to have somethin’. For when we’re not in the same place. Or when we’re fightin’. Or when you’re tired, and I’m being a prat, and you don’t want to see me. Somethin’ that’ll still mean what it’s supposed to mean.”

He reached forward, slow, and set the ring down between the pages of your shared astronomy journal. The little sun caught the candlelight and held it.

“You’re not forgetful,” he went on, after a moment, “but you’ve got a terrible memory when it comes to things that matter to me. And I don’t want to be one of those stories you only half-remember. A few good lines and then nothin’. I want to be somethin’ you keep. Even when you don’t mean to.”

James rubbed his thumb along the side of the ring, still not looking directly at you. “It’s the sun because… well, it shows up in every sky. Thought maybe if you wore it, you’d see me in every place you go. Every time you looked up. Like I could follow you ‘round without makin’ you late to anything.”

He finally looked at you then. Really looked. His eyes were soft, but there was a thread of nerves strung tight through them.

“Don’t have to wear it if you don’t want,” he added, a little too fast. “Just thought... you might like it. Since you like stars, and I like you.”

And then, with a half-laugh, barely audible. He leaned back, palms against the grass, and muttered, “I mean. It’s not a diamond or anything. But it’s shiny. And it’s yours. If you’ll have it.”

He didn’t need to say the rest. It sat there quietly between you, warm and humming and terribly, unmistakably forever.