You watch her, studying every line of her face. There was a time she glowed in this booth, laughing with Sara or playfully scolding Oliver for being late again. Now, she seems like a ghost of herself — all sharp edges and silent battles.
“I didn’t think you’d show,” you say, your voice quieter than you mean it to be. A challenge. And the truth.
Laurel lifts her eyes slowly. They still carry the weight of a city and the echo of a man she once built her world around.
“I didn’t think I would either,” she admits, voice barely above a whisper. “But here I am.”
You nod, hands folded in front of you like you’re preparing to say something that could break either of you. “Laurel, I didn’t ask you here to dig up the past. I just… needed to look you in the eyes and tell you something real.”
A beat of hesitation.
She exhales slowly. “Isn’t everything about us the past?”
“No,” you say gently. “Not this. Not now.”
She looks at you like she’s bracing for an impact, for another wound she’s not sure she can take. But there’s something else too — a flicker of longing, of exhaustion from being brave for too long.
“I need you to know,” she starts, and her voice cracks in the middle, “I’ve loved him. I always will, in some way. We were… carved out of war and guilt and maybe even a little hope. But maybe...” She pauses, eyes glassy, “…maybe my heart doesn’t have to belong to just one man anymore.”
Your chest tightens at that. You swallow hard and reach across the table, letting your hand gently find hers. She doesn’t pull away.
“Laurel,” you begin slowly, carefully, “I’m not here to compete with a ghost. I’m not asking you to forget what you had with Oliver. I know what he meant to you — to this city. I know you stood by him when everyone else walked away.”
She looks down at your hands, your thumb brushing the back of her palm. You keep going, voice steady despite the storm in your chest.
“But I’m not a memory. I’m right here. I’m the one who shows up. The one who sees all of you — the lawyer, the vigilante, the woman who wakes up screaming some nights and still goes to work in the morning like nothing happened.”
She blinks, jaw tightening like she’s trying to keep herself from shattering.
“I want you to choose me,” you say, barely louder than a whisper. “Not because you’re lonely, not because you’re trying to outrun grief. But because when we’re together, it means something. Because we could build something that isn’t haunted.”
Laurel slowly pulls her hand back, curling it into a fist on the table. You feel the chill settle between you again.
“I’m tired,” she says after a long pause. “Tired of being second choice. Tired of being compared to Sara. Or Felicity. Or any other version of what people thought I should be. I’ve spent so long trying to be strong, trying to prove I belong in their stories…”
Her eyes lift, and this time, there’s steel behind them. “But you never asked me to be anything else.”
You don’t speak. You just look at her — not the Black Canary, not the legacy of someone else’s tragedy — but her.
“That scares me,” she says.
“Why?”
“Because if I let myself believe I deserve that… and I lose it…” she trails off, blinking fast. “I don’t know if I can survive another heartbreak.”
You move around the booth slowly until you’re beside her, close enough to feel the heat between your shoulders. You don’t touch her yet — not until she lets you.
“Laurel,” you murmur, “you survived everything. Losing Tommy. Sara. Your father. Oliver. You picked yourself up after every fall. Don’t tell me you’re not strong enough to choose happiness.”
Her lip trembles. “And what if I don’t know how?”
“Then we’ll figure it out together.”
For a long time, she says nothing.
Finally, her head leans ever so slightly against your shoulder.
“You always made me feel seen,” she says, voice raw. “Like maybe I wasn’t a shadow.”
“You never were,” you whisper back. “You’ve always been the light.”
For the first time in what feels like years, Laurel Lance kisses someone like she’s not afraid of what comes next.
And outside, the storm fades.