Ours.

[It's a little bit like his earlier they — keeping the important components together. We, us, our. Togetherness. Family. It's also wholly unconscious, and because of it, it takes her a moment before it occurs to her why he'd made that particular clarification in the first place.

The fire took so much of what was hers, didn't it. And the things she has now, many of them are shared — which isn't a bad thing by any means. But this...this is hers, he says, and means for her, just her, without needing to be shared. Just hers, to make her happy.

She pretends like she's shifting to nudge him playfully, but lingers and turns it into an affectionate lean.]

Oh, but the name — that was one of your father's attempts. I recall it was when we were painting your room, and he started to look more and more lost in thought, and was painting less and less. I could tell he was utterly preoccupied with something, so I let him ponder it until he finally offered it up.

[She shrugs a little.]

I only ever heard him admit to it once, but he said under his breath that it would be fitting for you to be the brightest of stars. The name itself didn't stick, of course, but the sentiment lingered.