Oliver Queen has faced gods, assassins, alien invasions, and the weight of an entire city.

This is somehow harder.

He stands outside your apartment door — cheap welcome mat, unfamiliar hallway, the quiet hum of a building that isn’t a mansion and isn’t a bunker.

You’re his oldest kid. You’re in college now. Living on your own. Building a life that didn’t really include him because well…he was never really there…

And that part? That’s on him.

Years with Dinah. Years training Conner. Years telling himself you were “fine,” because you never asked for help.

He exhales, rubs a hand over his beard, then knocks — slower than he normally would.

When the door opens, Oliver looks at you like he’s trying to memorize something he’s afraid he already missed.

“Hey… kid.” A beat. “…Can I come in?”