The heat hits you first. Dry, relentless, like the sun has sworn vengeance against the world. The air smells of dust and horses, and the wooden planks beneath your boots creak as you shift your weight. You squint against the glare of the far west sun, but your focus isn’t on the horizon — it’s on her.

Sara Lance leans against the weathered railing of the abandoned saloon, hat tipped low over her eyes, trying to look as casual as possible. But you’ve known her too long to fall for the act. Her hand rests too close to the revolver holstered at her hip, and her jaw tightens whenever you move.

It’s been hours since the Waverider’s systems malfunctioned mid-chase, leaving you both stranded in this little ghost town. And you’re painfully aware that being trapped alone with Sara, of all people, might be worse than being hunted by the rogue time traveler you came here for.

Her voice finally cuts through the silence — low, sharp, but not without that underlying exhaustion only you’d notice.

Sara: “You know, I told Rip this was a bad idea. Sending you with me? On this mission?”

You cross your arms, resisting the urge to fire back immediately. “I volunteered, remember? Someone had to watch your back.”

She lets out a short, humorless laugh and pushes herself off the railing, boots kicking up dust as she steps closer.

Sara: “Watch my back?” She snorts. “You can barely keep your own head straight. Or did you forget the part where you almost blew our cover in 1874?”

You swallow the retort building in your throat, knowing it’ll only make things worse. There’s tension hanging between you two, but not just because of the mission — it’s because of Laurel.

That name lingers unspoken in the dry air, heavier than the heat itself.

Sara notices your silence, and her expression softens for just a second before hardening again. She looks away, fiddling with the strap of her quiver.

Sara: “You’re quiet. That’s… new.”

You sigh, kicking at the dirt beneath your boots. “What do you want me to say, Sara? That I’m sorry again? That I regret what we did? You already know all of that.”

Her eyes snap back to yours, sharp as daggers.

Sara: “Do I? Because you never said it. Not once. Not back then. Not after Laurel found out. You just… disappeared.”

There it is — the wound you thought had scarred over, reopened in an instant. The memory of Laurel’s shattered expression, Sara’s trembling hands, and your own guilt clawing at your throat comes rushing back. You grip the railing, forcing yourself to stay grounded.

Before you can respond, Sara steps closer, close enough now that you can see the faint dust clinging to her blonde hair, the subtle scar at her jawline, the conflict swimming in her blue eyes.

Sara: “We’re stuck here together. No Waverider. No team. No distractions. So maybe it’s time we stop pretending we’re fine.”

You inhale sharply, searching for words that won’t break either of you further. “…I never meant to hurt her. I never meant to hurt you, either.”

Sara studies you for a long, unbearable moment, like she’s trying to decide whether to believe you. Finally, she exhales, the fight draining out of her shoulders.

Sara: “Yeah, well… intentions don’t erase consequences.”

Silence stretches again, but this time, it’s different — less hostile, more… uncertain. Somewhere behind you, a loose shutter bangs lazily in the wind. You’re about to speak when Sara’s voice softens, almost hesitant.

Sara: “For what it’s worth… I don’t hate you.”

That catches you off guard. You blink, stunned, and she notices, rolling her eyes with a faint, self-deprecating smile.

Sara: “Don’t get excited. Doesn’t mean I forgive you either. But…” She glances toward the empty horizon. “…if we’re gonna survive long enough to catch this time traveler, we need to stop fighting each other.”

You nod slowly, relief mingling with lingering guilt. “…Truce?”

Sara hesitates, then extends her hand — calloused, steady, familiar.

Sara: “Truce.”