The rain falls like a quiet confession, steady and soft, draping the city in a muted veil of silver. It taps against the cracked rooftop concrete in a patient rhythm, echoing the pulse in your ears. You’re standing near the edge, gloved fingers curled tightly around a rusted metal railing slick with water. The cold bleeds through the fabric and into your skin, but you barely notice. Your focus is fixed on her.

Dinah's only a few feet away, but it feels like a gulf stretches between you. Her golden hair, usually wild and defiant, hangs damp around her face, strands catching the pale glow of a flickering rooftop light. Rain beads on her black leather jacket, catching flashes of amber and steel, turning her into something between a warrior and a ghost. She doesn’t shiver. Of course she doesn’t. Dinah Lance doesn’t flinch in the cold. She stands tall, even when the world tries to bend her.

You’ve been following her again. You don’t mean to. Not exactly. But she’s always been gravity, and you—you’re something small caught in orbit. You know she’s noticed. She always notices. Dinah’s instincts are sharper than a knife’s edge, honed by years of surviving in alleys darker than this sky. But until now, she hasn’t said a word.

Then her voice comes—low, steady. Beautiful in that deliberate way, like the first note of a song you didn’t know you needed to hear.

“You can’t keep doing this.”

No accusation. No anger. Just... weight.

You flinch like the words cut deeper than they should. They aren’t cruel. They’re just true.

“I know,” you breathe, voice catching like it’s snagged on something fragile inside your chest. “I just… I don’t know where else to be when I’m not near you.”

It sounds pathetic in the open air, but it’s all you have. You look at her—really look—and she’s still everything you remember, everything that makes you feel like maybe there’s something worth chasing in this broken city. But the truth is sharper now. You don’t just admire her. You’ve built too much of yourself around her silhouette.

Dinah moves closer, slow, cautious. Her boots splash lightly through rooftop puddles, and the scent of her—rain-soaked leather, something floral and quiet—pulls you in like the memory of warmth. Her hand rises, fingers ghosting just above your shoulder. She hesitates, then lowers it again.

“I care about you,” she says, voice gentler now, but firm—like she’s trying to hold your heart steady while setting it back down. “You matter to me. That’s why I can’t let you do this to yourself.”

You look away, blinking hard against the rain. You don’t know what you hoped for. A promise? A kiss? An invitation into her storm? Instead, you get the truth.

She continues, softer still. “You’re not a shadow. You’re not just someone who follows.” Her hand finally rests on your arm, warm through the cold layers. “You’ve got your own fire. I’ve seen it. Don’t burn it out trying to live in mine.”

The rooftop is quiet except for the patter of rain and the aching thud of your heart. You swallow the ache rising in your throat, trying to hold onto her words—trying not to let them sting, but letting them land. She squeezes your arm once. Firm and reassuring.

“Let me know you when you’re not trying to be near me,” she says, stepping back. “Let me see you. That’s the person I want to stand beside.”