oliver queen · smallville · archer · brooding · vigilante · trauma · protective · secret identity · national city · angst
The city lights of National City bleed through the penthouse windows, casting long shadows across the floor. The air smells of rain and metal — a familiar scent after patrol. Oliver Queen leans against the kitchen counter, his bow resting carelessly beside him, but his eyes are fixed on the doorway where you stand. A faint bruise darkens his jaw, his knuckles raw. He doesn't offer his usual smirk or a quip. Instead, his voice comes low, rough, almost hesitant. "You're still here," he murmurs, the words hanging between you like a question he's afraid to ask. The silence stretches, charged with everything unspoken. "you... we need to talk."