Roy Harper's sneakers skidded on loose gravel as he squeezed through the broken fence, the rusted metal groaning like a living thing. The steel mill loomed before him—a skeletal giant of crumbling brick and twisted iron, its shattered windows staring down like empty eye sockets.
He wiped his palms on his jeans, the frayed fabric rough against his skin.
Roy's hoodie hung open and loose, a faded red thing with frayed cuffs and sleeves pushed carelessly to his elbows. Beneath it, a dark gray tank top clung to his lean frame, streaked with dust from the climb in. His black jeans were threadbare at the knees—one leg torn just enough to catch on things, and the other stained from old bike grease. Scuffed high-tops slapped the ground with every step, the mismatched laces trailing just enough to be a tripping hazard. His fingers twitched inside worn, fingerless gloves, and the edge of a forgotten beanie stuck out of his hoodie pocket like an afterthought.
This is so stupid.
The thought echoed in his skull as he crossed the debris-strewn lot. He could still turn back. Return to his cramped studio above the bodega where the mattress springs dug into his ribs and the neighbors screamed through paper-thin walls. Pretend he'd never met the girl with the razor smile and fighter's stance.
The floodlight blinded him as he stepped through the gaping doorway. His boots crunched on broken glass, the sound unnaturally loud in the cavernous space. And there she was—Thea Queen, bathed in artificial light, her fists a blur as they pummeled the heavy bag. The chains shrieked with each impact, the rhythm steady as a heartbeat.
She wore a black sports bra, tight and minimal, its matte fabric darkened with sweat beneath her shoulder blades. Her bare midriff flexed with every strike, skin slick and muscles carved like she'd spent a lifetime earning them. Low-cut, dark gray athletic shorts clung to her hips, high enough to reveal the long lines of her legs, every movement emphasizing her speed and control. Black Cross-training shoes completed the look—worn soles, perfect grip. Her hands were wrapped in crimson tape, tight and practiced, and her long ponytail whipped like a metronome with each impact.
"You're late," she said without breaking pace. Sweat darkened the back of her black compression shirt, her ponytail whipping like a metronome with each strike.
Roy's shoulders hunched instinctively. "Yeah, well, the bus doesn't exactly run here at midnight." His voice cracked—*goddamn it*—and he saw her lips twitch.
Thea finally turned, unwrapping her hands with quick, precise movements. The tape was stained pink in places. "Wrap your hands." She tossed him a fresh roll without looking.
Roy fumbled the catch. "Why?"
"Because I'm not stitching your knuckles back together when you split them open." She stepped closer, and Roy caught the scent of leather and something citrusy beneath the sweat. "And because pain is distracting."
Roy scowled but started winding the tape around his fingers. The way her eyebrow arched told him he was doing it wrong. "You gonna tell me why a Queen gives a shit about some Glades rat?"
Thea circled him like a wolf sizing up prey. "Because three nights ago, you pickpocketed an ex-marine twice your size without him noticing. Because when the cops showed, you used the crowd like a chessboard." She stopped nose-to-nose with him, close enough that he could see the faint scar through her left eyebrow. "And because you're the only thief in Starling dumb enough to rob a Merlyn Tech exec but smart enough to nearly get away with it."
Roy's ears burned. "That was you? The drunk?"
He remembered the stumble, the spilled purse, the perfect mark—or so he'd thought.
Thea's smirk was all edges. "Now attack me."
Roy blinked. "What?"
"You heard me." She widened her stance, hands loose at her sides.
"I'm not gonna—"
Her fist grazed his cheekbone before he finished the sentence.
Roy staggered back, touching the hot sting. "What the hell, lady!"
"Lesson one." Thea bounced on the balls of her feet. "No one fights fair." She gestured him forward. "Again."
Roy lunged with a yell, swinging wild. Thea flowed around his punch like water, her foot hooking behind his ankle as she twisted his arm into a lock. His face met concrete with a smack that rattled his teeth.
"Dead," she announced, her knee pressing between his shoulder blades.
Roy wheezed against the floor. "Cheating bitch."
"You're gasping like a landed fish." She yanked him up by his hoodie. "And you fight like you want to lose."
Roy wiped his bloody nose on his sleeve. "Screw you."
Thea didn't flinch. "That all you got?"
Something primal uncoiled in Roy's gut. This time when he moved, he channeled every alleyway brawl, every desperate scramble to survive. He feinted left, then swung right—
Thea caught his fist one-handed.
Roy's breath hitched. No one had ever—
"Better." She twisted his wrist just shy of painful. "But you're still telegraphing." She demonstrated with a slow punch, her form flawless. "Your shoulders tense. Your eyes drop. You might as well send a postcard."
Roy yanked free. "Why do you even care?"
Thea studied him for a long beat. "Because someone should have."
Roy looked away, blinking hard. "Whatever. Can we just train?"
"Push-ups first." Thea dropped into perfect form. "Until you stop broadcasting your punches."
Roy groaned but mirrored her. "You're a demon."
"And you're still here." She tossed him a water bottle. "Smartest thing you've done all week."
Roy caught it, hiding his smile behind the sip. The water was cold enough to make his teeth ache.
"Thanks," he muttered into the bottle.
Thea nodded. "Again."
For the next hour, she drilled him relentlessly. Footwork patterns etched into the dusty concrete. Breathing exercises that left his ribs burning. Punches pulled at the last second to graze his skin without breaking it.
"Stop leaning in," Thea corrected, tapping his lower back with a wrapped fist. "You're off-balance."
Roy adjusted, his muscles screaming. "How the hell do you know all this?"
Thea's expression shuttered. "Family hobby."
When Roy overextended on a right hook, she exploited the opening instantly—one hand gripping his wrist, the other pressing cold metal against his throat. A knife he hadn't seen her draw.
"Dead again," she whispered, her breath warm against his ear.
Roy swallowed carefully, the blade's edge kissing his Adam's apple. His pulse hammered against the steel.
Thea stepped back, the knife vanishing as quickly as it appeared. "Never assume unarmed means harmless."
Roy touched his throat. "Noted."
As they reset, Thea's phone buzzed. She checked it, her face going carefully blank. "We're done for tonight."
Roy unwrapped his aching hands. "What, no goodbye kiss?"
Thea snorted, shoving gear into her duffel. "Let's get two things straight, Harper: One, I don't date guys. Two, I definitely don't date teenagers who still get carded for R-rated movies." She tossed a roll of tape at his chest.
He watched her walk away, her silhouette swallowed by the mill's shadows. Only when her footsteps faded did he notice—she'd left the tape behind.
Roy pocketed it, his split knuckles throbbing in time with his heartbeat. The pain felt good. Felt like progress.
Outside, the moon hung low over the Glades, its light painting the crumbling buildings in silver and shadow. Roy flexed his taped fingers, the ghost of Thea's grip still warm around his wrist.
"Same time tomorrow."
---
Thea's knuckles ached as she pushed open the mansion's side door, the metallic taste of last night's mistakes still clinging to her tongue. She'd lost track of how many hours she'd spent at the steel mill after Roy left, pounding her fists against the heavy bag until her muscles burned and her thoughts finally stilled. The grandfather clock in the foyer chimed six times as she slipped inside, its hollow tones echoing through the cavernous halls.
She had changed before coming home—into something deceptively casual, but still unmistakably her. A thin, charcoal-gray crop top clung to her like a second skin, the hem hitting just below her ribs and riding up with every step. Her soft black lounge shorts sat low on her hips and high on her thighs, the waistband folded down for no reason but exposure. An oversized plaid shirt, worn open and loose, drifted with her movement, its sleeves rolled up lazily to her elbows. The shirt hung off one shoulder, more suggestion than cover. Her white sneakers were clean but creased, dust clinging faintly to the soles. A faint red mark lingered near her collarbone, and a smear of steel mill grit still darkened the side of her thigh. She hadn't bothered to wipe it away.
She found her mother exactly where she knew she would be.
The door to Oliver's bedroom stood slightly ajar, as it always did now—not quite inviting, not quite forbidding, just existing in that liminal space between memory and reality. Thea pressed her forehead against the cool wood for a moment before pushing it open, her fingers leaving faint smudges on the polished surface.
Moira stood motionless before Oliver's dresser, her slender frame draped in another of her endless rotation of black designer dresses—this one a sleeveless Valentino with a high neck that made her look like a widow from another century. The morning light creeping through the cracked curtains caught the dust motes swirling around her, making her appear almost ethereal, like she might dissolve into the gloom at any moment.
"You're up early," Thea said, her voice carefully neutral as she leaned against the doorframe. Her ribs protested the movement—she'd taken a nasty hit from Roy during their sparring session that she'd been too proud to acknowledge.
Moira didn't turn. "You're home late." The words carried no accusation, just empty observation. The same way she might note the weather or stock prices.
Thea stepped inside, wincing as her sneaker crunched on the remnants of a champagne flute that no one had bothered to sweep up. The sound seemed obscenely loud in the tomb-like silence of the room. She noted the layer of dust coating everything—the unread philosophy books Robert had bought to bolster Oliver's faux-intellectual persona, the abandoned bottle of Clive Christian cologne that still faintly scented the air, the collection of vintage lighters arranged neatly on the desk like artifacts in a museum.
A sudden memory flashed—Oliver teaching her to light one of those damn things when she was twelve, his laughter when she'd singed her bangs. Thea blinked it away.
"I brought you something," she said, pulling the greasy paper bag from the diner out of her jacket pocket. The scent of lemon and butter cut through the staleness of the room. "Those pancakes you like. The ones with the blueberry compote."
Moira's fingers twitched at her sides, the only sign she'd even heard. "I'm not hungry."
"You haven't eaten since yesterday morning." Thea set the bag down next to a framed photo of Oliver on the deck of the Queen's Gambit, his arm slung around some socialite whose name Thea could never remember. The glass was cracked—she didn't know when that had happened.
"Why does it matter?" Moira's voice was flat, empty. Thea recognized that tone—it was the one she used at board meetings when she was mentally already somewhere else.
Thea swallowed hard. "Because I can't lose you too."
The words hung between them, raw and bleeding. Moira didn't react.
Thea moved to the window, her fingers brushing against the heavy drapes. For a moment, she considered throwing them open, flooding the room with light, but something stopped her. Instead, she just nudged them apart enough to see the first hints of dawn coloring the sky over Starling City.
"Mrs. Huang called again," Thea tried, changing tactics. "She said the children's wing needs—"
"Tell her to find someone else." Moira's hand hovered over Oliver's collection of hotel keycards—a physical map of his escapades. The Ritz-Carlton. The Four Seasons. The Mandarin Oriental. "Better yet, tell her I'm dead too."
Thea turned sharply, the words like a slap. But when she saw her mother's reflection in the grimy mirror—the hollows under her eyes, the way her collarbones jutted sharply above the neckline of her dress—the anger drained away, leaving only exhaustion.
They stood there, suspended in the quiet, the only sound the faint ticking of Oliver's platinum Rolex on the nightstand. Thea wondered if her mother even heard it—that constant, relentless reminder of time moving forward without them.
Slowly, hesitantly, Thea reached out. Her fingers brushed against Moira's wrist, feeling the delicate bones beneath paper-thin skin. "Please," she whispered. "Just come downstairs. We don't even have to talk. We can just... sit."
For one breathtaking second, Thea thought she felt her mother lean into the touch. But then Moira was pulling away, her black dress whispering against the carpet as she moved toward the door.
Thea didn't turn to watch her go. She just stared at the space where Moira had been, at the single clean streak her mother's finger had left in the dust on Oliver's dresser.
On the nightstand, the Rolex continued its endless ticking.
Thea reached out and stopped it.
The silence was deafening.
---
LAUREL'S POV - QUEEN MANSION**
Two days.
Two days of unanswered texts. Two days of calls going straight to voicemail. Two days of Thea Queen being conspicuously absent from all her usual haunts.
Laurel shifted her law school bag higher on her shoulder as she marched up the Queen mansion's driveway, her shoes scuffing against the pristine pavement. She'd come straight from campus, her Contracts textbook still weighing down her bag, her hair a mess from running her hands through it all morning.
She didn't bother with the front door. Instead, Laurel circled to the side garden where Thea's bedroom balcony overlooked the koi pond.
"Queen!" she yelled up at the French doors. "I know you're in there!"
No response.
Laurel dug out her phone and hit call again. From above, the faint sound of Thea's ringtone drifted through the cracked balcony doors.
Bingo.
She grabbed a handful of pebbles and started pelting them at the glass.
**THEA'S POV**
The fifth pebble hit with a sharp tink.
Thea finally yanked the window open just as Laurel wound up for another throw. "You're going to break something."
Laurel lowered her arm. "Finally."
Up close, Laurel looked like she'd spent two days obsessing over this—her crisp white blouse untucked at one side, a faint coffee stain near the cuff, and her charcoal cigarette pants wrinkled from a day spent bouncing between lectures and pacing. Her dark ankle boots were scuffed at the toes, and her ponytail had mostly given up, strands of hair falling loose around her tired eyes. A battered messenger bag hung from her shoulder, overstuffed and tugging the whole outfit slightly off balance.
Thea leaned against the window frame. "You look like hell."
Laurel's jaw tightened. "Gee, wonder why." She hefted her bag. "Are you letting me in or not?"
Thea sighed, brushing a hand through her wild hair. "Go to the front. I'll have someone open the door." Then, before Laurel could protest, she disappeared back inside, the gauzy curtain swaying behind her.
---
Laurel entered the mansion and was greeted by one of the Queen family's staff—a silent nod, no questions asked. She returned the gesture with a tired smile and made her way up the familiar staircase, her boots soft on the polished floor.
When she reached the second floor, she paused outside Thea's bedroom and knocked twice. No answer. Then a third, firmer knock.
Finally, the door creaked open.
Thea stood there, utterly at ease in her own space—barely dressed and completely unapologetic. She wore a sheer black mesh bralette that offered no pretense of modesty, the fabric clinging transparently to her chest with thin, delicate straps barely holding it in place. Her bottoms were little more than a high-cut g-string, strappy and minimal, the gold-ringed waistband riding high on her hips and disappearing against smooth, bare skin. She was barefoot, her toenails painted a bold, glossy red, and her skin gleamed faintly in the soft light—still dewy from a recent shower or a forgotten body oil routine. Her hair fell loose around her shoulders, tousled and damp, like she'd just rolled out of bed after doing something she wasn't about to explain.
Inside Thea's bedroom, Laurel paced, her sneakers silent on the plush carpet. "You ignored me for two days."
Thea crossed her arms. "I was busy."
"Bullshit." Laurel stopped. "You ran out on me. Then ghosted me. So either tell me what happened or—"
"Or what?"
"Or I'll start thinking I actually did something wrong."
Silence stretched between them. Thea looked away first.
"You were drunk," she muttered.
"So were you! That's not an answer." Laurel threw her hands up. "What exactly did you think was happening that made you bail so fast?"
Thea's fingers dug into her arms. "You were... close. Saying all that stuff about envying me. And then you—" She gestured vaguely. "Your hand."
Laurel blinked. "My hand?"
"You touched me."
Understanding dawned on Laurel's face. Then her lips started twitching. "Oh my god. You thought I was hitting on you?"
Thea's face burned. "You were right there—"
"Because I was sharing a secret!" Laurel burst out laughing. "I admire how you don't let people see you vulnerable. Not that I wanted to—" She waved between them, shoulders shaking.
Thea stared. Realization settled over her.
Oh.
Laurel's smile softened. "For the record? If I was going to make a move—"
Thea threw another pillow. "We are not doing this."
"—I'd do it properly," Laurel continued, batting the pillow away. "No wine, no emotional breakdowns—"
Thea groaned, flopping back onto the bed. "Laurel."
"—just me, looking devastatingly good, telling you exactly how I felt—"
"You're enjoying this."
Laurel grinned. "Immensely." She leaned in. "And then I'd—"
Thea clamped a hand over Laurel's mouth. "Finish that sentence and I will push you off this bed."
Laurel peeled Thea's fingers away, laughing. "Relax, I was going to say I'd buy you dinner first." Her expression sobered slightly. "But we both know that's not happening."
Thea rolled her eyes. "Because you're straight."
"Because I'm straight," Laurel confirmed. Then, after a beat: "But that's not why I'm offended."
Thea frowned. "What?"
Laurel sat up, crossing her legs. "You ran."
Thea opened her mouth, but Laurel cut her off.
"No, listen. You thought—for whatever reason—that I was confessing some big romantic thing. And your immediate response was to bolt like I'd pulled a knife on you." Hurt flickered across Laurel's face. "That's what stings, Thea. That you'd think so little of me—of us—that your first instinct was to bail."
Thea stared at her.
Laurel huffed. "I mean, Jesus, even if I had been hitting on you—which, again, straight—since when do we not talk things out?"
The silence stretched. Outside, a bird trilled in the Queen gardens.
Thea picked at a loose thread on her comforter. "I panicked."
"No shit."
"It wasn't about you." Thea met Laurel's gaze. "I just... don't do well with that stuff. Feelings. Confessions. Whatever." Thea looked down and added in a whisper. "Especially after what happened with Sara."
Laurel studied her for a long moment. Then, with exaggerated solemnity: "So what you're saying is, you're emotionally stunted."
Thea kicked her.
Laurel dodged, laughing. "I'm just saying! You're the one who mistook a drunk heart-to-heart for a marriage proposal."
"It was weird, okay?"
"It was honest." Laurel flopped back onto the bed beside her. "And for the record? If I were into girls—"
Thea smirked. "I could change your mind."
Laurel blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." Thea propped herself up on one elbow, her grin turning wicked. "I've been told I'm very persuasive."
Laurel burst out laughing. "Oh my god. You're insufferable."
Thea wiggled her eyebrows. "Just saying. The offer's on the table."
"Noted." Laurel shoved her away, still giggling. "But since I'm currently very, very straight—"
"Currently," Thea emphasized.
"—you're stuck with me as your best friend. Deal?"
Thea exhaled, the last of the tension leaving her shoulders. "Deal."
Laurel grinned. "Good. Now help me study for my torts midterm. I brought coffee and everything."
Thea eyed the iced coffee sweating on her nightstand. "That's been sitting there for twenty minutes."
"And?"
"It's water now, Laurel."
Laurel waved a hand. "Details."
---
The neon sign's dying buzz vibrated through Thea's molars as she lingered beneath its crimson glow. Rain had begun misting Starling's streets, turning the pavement into a fractured mirror of light and shadow. She flexed her fingers—still stiff from hours spent annotating QC board meeting transcripts in her mother's study—and pushed through the heavy oak door.
The bar's atmosphere hit like a velvet glove: aged whiskey and lemon polish undercut by the acrid tang of over-roasted peanuts. Thea navigated through the usual Wednesday night constellations—hedge fund analysts holding court at the center tables, nurses decompressing at the bar after double shifts, and tucked in his strategic corner booth, Tommy Merlyn held a tumbler of amber liquid like it contained all the answers.
He was dressed for someone else, that much was obvious—deep navy button-down, sleeves rolled to the forearms, charcoal trousers that screamed custom tailoring, and oxblood brogues polished to a shine. The top buttons of his shirt hung open just enough to reveal a sliver of chain, and his hair—gelled into submission with a few almost-blond highlights—was a crime against barbers that somehow still worked. Cologne clung faintly to the air around him—expensive, warm, unmistakably Tommy.
His positioning never varied—back to the wall, sightlines covering every exit, one empty chair angled just so. Some childhood habits refused to fade, even when the dangers that created them were six feet under.
Thea's path through the room sent subtle ripples through the crowd.
She was dressed like a warning label in human form—barely-there black leather harness crisscrossing her chest, held together by polished silver rings, revealing more than it covered. Her low-rise leather shorts clung to her hips like they were painted on, laced at the sides with teasing cutouts that left most of her thighs exposed. Strappy stilettos clicked beneath her with every step, the heels high enough to turn her walk into a glide. A thin leather choker hugged her throat, a silver O-ring resting just above her collarbones. Her lips were slicked in deep cherry gloss, the only makeup she wore. Her eyes, bare and sharp, made no apologies. Hair wild. Skin glowing. She was deliberate chaos in motion.
Tommy didn't glance up from his phone as she approached, but the subtle tightening of his jaw gave him away. Thea slid into the booth and liberated the maraschino cherry from his old-fashioned, spinning the stem between her fingers until sticky red coated her skin.
"You're wearing cologne," she observed. "The kind that costs more than my shoes."
"Unlike some people, I believe in basic hygiene." Tommy finally looked up, his smirk deepening as he cataloged her appearance—the crisp white blouse wrinkled from a long day, the faint ink smudge on her index finger, the way her hair had escaped its ponytail in rebellious strands. His gaze lingered on the shadows beneath her eyes before flicking to her untouched drink. "Rough day at the office?"
Thea popped the cherry in her mouth, biting down until synthetic sweetness flooded her tongue. As if summoned, Marco materialized with her usual Knob Creek neat—no order required anymore. The tumbler hit the table with a satisfying clink, condensation already painting its surface. That small ritual marked how far they'd come from those first terrible weeks after the Gambit, when they'd communicated solely through broken glass and bourbon fumes.
Tommy pocketed his phone just as the jukebox coughed up some synth-pop atrocity. Thea didn't need to ask—the way his fingers tapped an arrhythmic beat against his glass confirmed it was his pick. She'd recognize those terrible music choices anywhere.
A comfortable silence settled between them, punctuated only by the ice cubes' slow demise. Thea studied Tommy in the bar's dim light—the hollows under his eyes weren't so pronounced these days, though new tension lived in the set of his shoulders. Twelve weeks of Wednesday nights had sanded down their sharpest edges, turned shared misery into something resembling... whatever this was.
"You're staring," Tommy said without looking up.
"Just wondering when you're going to fix that tragic haircut."
His hand flew to his gelled strands in mock offense. "This is a classic undercut."
"It's a hate crime against barbers everywhere." Thea leaned forward, squinting. "Is that actual glitter?"
"Highlights," he corrected, though the tips of his ears pinked. "Subtle ones."
"Subtle like a heart attack." She stole one of his napkins to wipe cherry residue from her fingers. "Who even does your hair these days? The same guy who handles your father's congressional bids?"
Tommy's laugh was sharp enough to draw glances. "Please, like Moira didn't have her own stylist on retainer."
The familiar rhythm of their bickering faded as Marco delivered another round, this time with a bowl of wasabi peas that definitely hadn't been ordered. Thea watched condensation slide down her fresh glass, tracing the wet trail with her thumbnail.
Tommy caught the motion. "Penny for your thoughts?"
She swirled the whiskey, watching caramel liquid cling to the glass before breaking apart. "Just thinking how weird this is."
"Weird bad or weird...?" He mimed a scale tipping back and forth.
Thea exhaled through her nose. "Weird that I don't hate it." The admission slipped out raw and unvarnished, startling them both.
For a heartbeat, Tommy's smirk softened into something resembling the boy who'd taught her to cheat at poker when she was twelve—back when his smiles reached his eyes. "Yeah, well." He clinked their glasses together with deliberate care. "You're stuck with me now, Queen."
Thea rolled her eyes but didn't argue. Somewhere between Tommy drunkenly butchering "Sweet Caroline" at karaoke and her explaining corporate tax loopholes to him (a subject he'd scandalously ignored despite his business degree), this had stopped being about filling the silence left by shattered yacht hulls.
Tommy stretched, his tailored sleeve riding up to reveal a lurid purple bruise along his forearm. Thea raised an eyebrow.
"Don't ask," he groaned.
"Yoga?"
"Worse. Pilates reformer class."
Thea's laughter drew stares. "You? On one of those torture machines with the springs?"
"It was one session!" Tommy rubbed the bruise ruefully. "The instructor said I had the flexibility of rebar and the grace of a beached whale."
The mental image sent Thea into another fit, her ribs aching with it. "Please tell me there's video."
"Bribed the studio manager to delete the security footage." Tommy pushed the wasabi peas toward her. "Your turn. What's got you looking like you went ten rounds with a photocopier?"
Thea crunched a pea, feeling the burn spread across her tongue. "QC board members," she said at last. "Six hours arguing over emissions standards."
Tommy's grin turned feral. "Let me guess—Caldwell still thinks climate change is a myth?"
"Worse. He called it 'an excellent opportunity for yacht sales in the Arctic.'"
Their shared laughter died as Thea's phone buzzed against the table. A weather alert flashed red: SEVERE STORM WARNING. The neon sign outside chose that moment to fail completely, plunging the bar into eerie half-light.
In the sudden gloom, Tommy's expression turned unreadable. "You good to get home?"
Thea thought of the mansion's empty halls, the stack of documents waiting in the study. "I'll manage."
Tommy studied her for a long moment—the set of her shoulders, the way her fingers tightened around her glass—before tossing cash on the table. "Same time next week?"
Thea stood, buttoning her jacket against the coming storm. "Bring better music."
Outside, the first raindrops began to fall. Thea turned up her collar and walked into the night, the echo of Tommy's laughter still warm in her ears.
Same time next week..
---
Thea couldn't sleep.
She stood at her bedroom window in a loose black silk camisole, the fabric whispering against bare skin with every breath. The neckline dipped low over her chest, no bra beneath, the hem barely brushing the top of her lace-trimmed sleep shorts. Her feet were bare against the cool wood floor, her toes curling slightly as she leaned into the glass.
Moonlight painted silver streaks across the koi pond below. Somewhere in the mansion, a pipe groaned—the old house settling into its bones.
Her phone buzzed. Roy.
*still sore from ur "training"*
Thea smiled, typing back. *good. means ur learning*
She hesitated, then added: *same time tomorrow?*
The response came instantly. *wouldn't miss it*
Thea set the phone down, her fingers tracing the fresh bruise on her ribs. For the first time in months, the hollow ache in her chest felt a little less like grief and a little more like... something else. Something that might, eventually, resemble hope.
Outside, dawn was still hours away. But for now, this was enough.
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**Author's Note:**
First and foremost, my sincerest apologies for the two-month wait between chapters! Real life has been relentless lately—between preparing for school starting next month, the chaos of moving, enrollment paperwork, and finally getting my driver's learner's permit (*cue nervous laughter*), writing time became scarce. Your patience means the world to me, and I'm thrilled to finally share this chapter with you.
Quick Canon Notes:
1. I may have accidentally implied Moira knew about the Queen's Gambit bombing earlier than canon - she wasn't involved until Year 2 on the island, so consider that retconned if I wrote it differently before! 😅
2. As the writer, I sometimes lose track of what I've actually included in previous chapters versus what's just in my head (the curse of a busy fanfic writer!) - feel free to gently point out any inconsistencies!
Coming Up:
We're nearing the end of Year One on the island! Expect a significant time jump in the next chapter or two—we'll be leaping forward to Three Years, placing us just twelve months before Oliver's triumphant (and heavily bearded) return to Starling.
As always, thank you for sticking with this story. Your comments and theories fuel my motivation more than you know!