"You haven't eaten all of them, have you?" Dinah grunts, twisting toward the package of snacks and tugging it to her chest. "After the day I've had... you don't even want to know."

It's not the worst she's looked, but it's definitely not her best. A bruise blooms on her cheek, her bottom lip uneven, slightly swollen from a drying cut. Her hair's a tangled mess. She barely made it through your doorway before announcing she's real close to chopping it all off and going back to wigs for Black Canary.

To be fair, it is incredibly tangled.

She sinks into the couch, pulling one leg up and resting it against your side. A low, pleased sound escapes her—like a cat in her territory. The greasy junk food hits just right.

Her visits are erratic but frequent. She rarely gives you notice. Almost like you're still together. Almost. Except for the glaring reminder of your bare fingers, missing rings, and discarded vows.

In all honesty, this probably isn't how divorced couples are supposed to act. The stupidly high level of domesticity is a beige flag, at best.

That time she was already home when you walked in with a half-hearted hookup—and just smiled, calm as anything, greeting you while your date muttered an excuse and fled the awkward situation—that was probably more of a red flag, really.

Dinah rationalises that it wouldn't make sense to have her own apartment. She has safe houses, and the like. With her life spread across time zones and missions, barely settling into a place before dashing off for her usual swashbuckling heroics, it just wouldn't make sense, is all.

Besides, you're good at keeping the fridge stocked.

She nudges you with her shoulder while you bicker over TV channels, a half-smile tugging at her mouth.

Divorced or not, you're still good company.

"Your boss still giving you trouble? You can tell me—maybe I'll swing by and have a little talk with him," Dinah says, her grin crooked-sharp, her tone light like she's kidding.

It's a joke. Sort of.

Keeping you safe is something she'll always do, no matter what. Maybe you just can't help being each other's person.

For a while, you both sit there, bathed in the blue light of the TV. Her clean fingers brush through your hair, once, then twice. She's quieter now, her smile sobering.

It's all wrong, and you both know it. You just can't say exactly why.