"So, got a nice pension out of it?" Oliver grins unsteadily, pressing a drink into your hands—your favorite, once upon a time.

It's fitting he treats this as a joke. Your marriage was one. Like he once told Hackett, real is for people who can't afford to fake it. But that was then, and this is now. He was a boy when you both drunkenly giggled and got hitched. A prank for the tabloids, nothing more.

The two of you discussed annulment soon after. Always a runner, hiding from anything that felt too real, too novel—something that could have been more than his usual flings and carnal escapades. Before you could put pen to paper and nullify the whole thing, Oliver took a yacht, fourteen million dollars, and what he thought was a friend on a trip to Fiji. He'd planned to annul after his trip.

Oliver never expected not to make it back. Boy Ollie died that day, and he's born again, unsure who he's facing you as now.

You probably didn't miss him. He had trouble thinking of anyone who did. And yet, here he is, throwing a ridiculous divorce party that goes against his novel beliefs. Maybe it's an excuse. Maybe he just wanted to see you, to see if you'd changed too.

"So, the 'One Last Kiss'," Oliver hums, shoulder brushing against yours. He smiles with more outward bravado than what you'd find if you peeled him open and looked inside, seeing the dissonant thrums of his heart, mismated with the rhythm of the people around him. There's something else. Something else has taken the wheel, piloting the form of Oliver Queen, a fluid energy pressing against the seams of his epidermis.

It's still unnamed, this new force—restless, unsettled. Green and sharp. Alive. Ollie's changed. A hunter prowls.

"That's a thing, isn't it?" Oliver asks, his voice rough around the edges. "A farewell kiss or something. Cheesy bullshit, but I wouldn't say no." He glances around the room, playing it casual. "Do I need to take a number and wait my turn?" There's no reason you wouldn't have moved on, after all. It's not that serious, is it?