The concrete of the training mat still burned through your shirt as you lay flat on your back, lungs gasping for something close to mercy. Dinah didn’t deal in mercy. Not in the field, not in training, and definitely not with you. Her boot tapped against the mat beside your ribs.

“Again,” she said, voice sharp, clipped, as if she hadn’t just thrown you flat on your back for the fourth time.

You rolled over slowly, groaning. “You sure you’re not working out some personal frustrations on me?”

She snorted. “If I was, you wouldn’t be breathing.”

You grinned despite yourself. Same old Dinah. She looked down at you with those hawk-like eyes, hair tied back in a no-nonsense braid, her arms crossed in that same way she always did when you were fourteen and smuggling firecrackers under your hoodie. Only now you were grown—well-trained, sharper—but still completely undone by her presence.

“Get up,” she said again, more softly this time. Not gentle, exactly, but less like a drill sergeant and more like the Dinah who used to bring over cupcakes she swore she hadn’t bought just to see your sister smile.

Your sister. Olivia.

Funny how Dinah had always been a constant—your sister’s best friend, the neighbor who once taught you how to throw a punch, the one you secretly wished would look at you with something other than the narrowed eyes of discipline. She had always been just a few doors down, a few years too old, a few wounds too deep.

Until Oliver Queen swept in like a storm and stole the part of her that used to feel like it could’ve been yours. Dinah and Oliver: that eternal, messy dance of love and heartbreak. You knew the rhythm of it by heart by now. Some days she’d talk about him like he was a ghost; others, like he was oxygen. Always slipping through her fingers. Never fully gone.

The ringtone snapped the silence—Olivia’s contact photo lighting up her phone. Dinah snatched it up quickly, voice smoothing out like velvet as she answered.

“Hey, Liv.”

You sat up, chest still heaving, brushing sweat from your brow as you listened. Dinah’s posture shifted slowly, tension leaking from her shoulders.

“She’s inviting us,” Dinah said after a moment, pulling the phone away from her ear. “She says Simon’s finally figured out how to smile on command. I told her you’ve been practicing that trick for years.”

You grinned, exhausted. “That’s because I’m charming.”

She rolled her eyes. “Debatable.”

You both made your way to the garage—your bodies aching but your pace quickening now. There was something about visiting your sister that always made Dinah a little less steel, a little more human. Maybe it was the way Olivia always welcomed her with that unshakable, open warmth. Or maybe it was Simon. That baby had Dinah wrapped around his tiny finger, and he didn’t even know how to talk yet.

You straddled the back of the motorcycle as she slid her helmet on. The leather of her jacket creaked as she turned the key, the engine roaring to life. You didn’t say anything as you wrapped your arms around her waist—just leaned your forehead against her back for a second longer than necessary.

She didn’t say anything either.

But she didn’t pull away.

The road stretched before you both—grit and wind and blurred lights. For now, Dinah Lance wasn’t your ruthless teacher or your sister’s best friend or the woman who never quite looked back. For now, she was just the one who always took you along when she left.

And that will be probably all .