Chapter Eleven: Breakfast

Harry quietly climbed through his window, hoping nobody had come to check on him in the middle of the night. While Oliver was home, it was hard to say if any of the Queens would have taken the time. If anyone had, his bet would be on Moira, with Thea as a close second. Walter seemed the least likely-he'd barely interacted with the man, and Walter's work at Queen Consolidated kept him busy. The fact he'd been there when they first arrived at the Manor was impressive enough.

He made his way to the dresser, changing into sweatpants and a tank top to emulate the idea that he'd been sleeping most of the night. He disheveled his hair a bit, running a hand through it as he exited his room, adjusting his body language and walking pattern as though he'd just woken up. He headed toward the bathroom, but just before he reached the door, he heard Walter greet him.

"Mornin', just give me a minute," Harry said, rubbing his eyes and waving lazily.

"No rush. Thea's been in there forever—I'm starting to wonder if she's moved in," Walter replied with a chuckle.

Harry smirked, leaning against the wall.

"Guess I'll need to find a third option."

Walter shook his head, the humor lingering in his expression.

"If you find one, let me know. I've been waiting an hour."

"An hour?" Harry raised an eyebrow. "Why are you up so early?"

"Taking Moira out for breakfast. There's a spot near the hospital you were at—best omelets in the city. You should join us."

The idea of joining them had made Harry's mind skip for a moment. The last few days had been spent trying to slip into the shadows, letting everyone else take center stage. Not that it was intentional-he was still adjusting to being back. He had no problem letting Walter be the one to fill the silence in the house, his easy-going presence filling the spaces that Harry didn't quite know how to fill yet.

Still, Harry would be lying if it didn't feel weird to him that Walter seemed so comfortable here. The guy had moved from being Robert's best friend to Moira's husband in what felt like a blink of an eye. While they hadn't actually said so, it wasn't hard to tell. After all, it wasn't exactly normal for a family friend to be hanging around at this hour, acting like he belonged here more than anyone else.

It wasn't that Harry disliked Walter; he barely knew the guy. It was just that it seemed Walter had forgotten to keep their marriage under wraps for the moment.

"As nice as that sounds, I was actually planning on sleeping in today. Thanks, though."

Walter smirked, before shrugging. The look in his eyes was as if he knew Harry had been up all night, but chose not to say anything.

"Can't say I blame you. I miss those days, so enjoy it while you can."

Harry's eyes narrowed as he remembered there was more than one bathroom.

"Well, I could use the other one, but-"

"I already tried that, but the Mrs. beat me to it. I was hoping Thea would be done by now, but I'm starting to wonder if she fell asleep in there."

Ignoring the blatant "Mrs." comment, Harry used his enhanced hearing to listen into the bathroom. He could hear Thea's heart beating steadily and the sound of her humming to music while the shower was running. It was a skill that had saved him more than once, but it also made moments like this more... intrusive. She wasn't asleep, but that didn't mean she'd be hurrying to get out anytime soon. He was tempted to bust in anyway but stifled the urge to. He just wanted to get away from Walter before he started asking the wrong questions.

With a resigned sigh, Harry slid down against the wall and rubbed his hands together, feeling the coolness of the floor against his back. He noticed Walter sit down beside him, much to his annoyance, if not for the fact the man was wearing a suit.

"So, how are you holding up?" Walter asked, clearly inquiring about how Harry was adjusting to being back in civilization.

In any ordinary circumstance, Harry would have probably felt like he'd been through a whirlwind. From the hospital to the Manor, meeting the Queens, Tommy, venturing into the city, and then getting kidnapped-all in just a few days. It would have been a lot for anyone, but Harry had been through worse in less time. This felt like a walk in the park.

"I'm managing," he replied with a shrug.

"I know we're not close, but if you'd like someone to talk to, I'm here."

"I appreciate it, but I think I should be asking how you're holding up with Oliver," Harry said, tilting his head slightly, letting the subject shift. "You're his stepdad. He comes back after five years, and you're married to his mother. That's got to be complicated."

Walter's expression shifted, surprise flickering across his face, followed closely by just a hint of horror.

"You know?"

"Yeah? I knew from the moment we met," Harry replied, watching Walter process everything. "I mean, alright, I had my suspicions, but you definitely gave it away with the Mrs. comment." He emphasized the Mrs. with air quotations.

"Shit," Walter clicked his tongue. "We... we want to tell Oliver at the right time," he explained, his voice low and earnest. "It's not like we got together right after Oliver and his father disappeared. Moira and I had to figure things out ourselves first. We didn't want to spring it on him."

Harry chuckled lightly at that last comment, nodding in agreement.

"Yeah, I get that. But it might be too late to surprise Oliver. I'm pretty sure he knows already."

Walter's eyes widened slightly, a mix of disbelief and concern crossing his face.

"You think so?"

"Trust me, he's sharper than most people realize," Harry said, a knowing smile creeping onto his face. "I wouldn't be surprised if he's already put the pieces together."

Walter let out a resigned sigh, leaning back against the wall. "Great. Just what we need."

"Just tell him," Harry advised, his voice steady. "Oliver's a grown man. He'd appreciate the truth rather than having it held from him. He and his dad were gone for five years, presumed dead. If Moira hadn't moved on, that would have been more surprising. At least it's with someone who clearly cares for her." Walter pondered Harry's words, his expression softening.

"Secrets just complicate things. It's better to be honest with him."

Walter chuckled softly.

"You're wiser than your years, kid."

Harry shrugged, a hint of a smile on his face.

"Old enough to know better, but young enough to still make mistakes."

"You don't say," Walter replied, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Harry and Walter continued their conversation, the atmosphere easing as they shared stories about how things had unfolded between Walter and Moira.

"When I first started dating Moira, it was strange," Walter began, leaning back against the wall with a thoughtful expression. "There was no intention of anything romantic. Robert was my best friend, and after he died, I just wanted to make sure his family was alright. I didn't want them to feel abandoned, you know?"

"We'd talk for hours," Walter continued, a hint of nostalgia in his voice. "And after a while, something just clicked. It was unexpected. I think I was just trying to fill the void left by Robert, but it turned into something more."

"How did Thea take it?" Harry asked, intrigued.

"She wasn't very receptive at first, just like I expect Oliver to be when he finds out. But Thea came around eventually," Walter replied, a mixture of pride and regret in his tone. "The wedding was small—barely enough to be considered a ceremony in my opinion. Moira didn't want one. She was content enough to go down to the courthouse. It was weird to me, but I respected her wishes."

"Yeah, I can see why," Harry said thoughtfully. "It makes sense, considering her history with Robert. A proper ceremony might have felt like it tarnished that memory."

"Exactly," Walter said, his gaze distant as he recalled the moment. "I think she wanted to keep that part of her life untouched. A ceremony could have felt like an acknowledgment that she was moving on, and I think she struggled with that."

"I've only been to one wedding," Harry admitted, "but I can understand the sentiment. It's a big deal, and for some people, it's tied up in so much history and emotion."

Walter nodded, his expression turning serious again.

"Regardless, whatever happens with Oliver, I hope he understands. We just want him to be happy."

"I think he will," Harry reassured him, feeling a sense of solidarity forming between them. "He might surprise you."

The bathroom door creaked open, and Thea stepped out, her hair still damp and loosely draped over her shoulders. She was wearing a simple pair of sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt, the towel in her hand still wrapped around her head as she worked it through her wet hair. The faint scent of shampoo lingered in the air, mixing with the warmth of the room.

She glanced over at Harry and Walter, her eyes narrowing slightly as she processed the scene. There was a hint of amusement in her gaze as she raised an eyebrow.

"What did I miss?" she asked, her voice casual but curious.

Walter, already standing and stretching, gave her a look of mock frustration.

"Nothing yet, but if you keep me waiting any longer, I'm going to be in serious need of a change of clothes." He gave her a wry grin before heading toward the bathroom. "Excuse me for a moment."

Harry smirked, watching Walter disappear.

"Hope you didn't take all the hot water," he teased.

"Guess you'll have to find out, won't you?" Thea flashed him a playful smile, her eyes twinkling.

She turned and walked toward her room, the damp ends of her hair bouncing lightly with each step. Harry stood up, stretching his legs, and for a moment, he let his mind wander, the quiet of the house settling around him as he watched her go.

Once Walter had stepped out, giving him a quick farewell as he headed downstairs to meet up with Moira for breakfast, Harry made his way into the bathroom. The door clicked shut behind him, and he let out a relieved sigh. The warmth from the shower felt like a blessing, the steam quickly clearing away the lingering tiredness that clung to him after a restless night. It wasn't a long shower, just enough to wash away the grime of the day before. He ran a towel through his damp hair, drying off quickly before stepping out.

Dressed in comfortable clothes now—jeans and a t-shirt—he trudged back to his room, the soft plush carpet under his feet a welcome sensation. He lay down on the bed, letting the coolness of the sheets settle around him. Closing his eyes, he tried to relax, to let sleep overtake him, but his mind was far too restless.

Maybe just a quick nap… he thought, but it didn't take long before his eyes snapped open again.

"Son of a bitch..." He muttered under his breath.

The mention of omelets was still fresh in his mind. It hadn't quite registered when Walter had said it, but now, it was all he could think about. A quick glance at the clock showed there was still time before the sun fully rose, and Harry's stomach growled as if on cue. He cursed softly, pushing himself up off the bed.

Well, I guess I'm not sleeping now.

He made his way out of his room, the sound of his footsteps muffled on the carpet. It didn't take long before he found himself in the kitchen, rummaging around for something that would satisfy his hunger. The thought of omelets nagged at him, a silent request from his body that couldn't be ignored. He sighed, knowing that he could at least put something together while his thoughts wandered back to everything that had been happening in the last few days.

Harry cracked a smile, feeling a little lighter. The day was shaping up to be longer than he expected—and if it involved omelets? Well, he could handle that.

The smell of sizzling bacon and fresh eggs filled the kitchen as Harry flipped pancakes on the stove, setting them into a warm stack beside a plate of buttered toast. He grabbed the skillet handle with ease, tilting it just enough to slide a perfect omelet onto a plate, complete with sautéed veggies and melted cheese. He caught sight of Thea at the entrance, wide-eyed and leaning against the doorway.

"Are you… cooking?" she asked, somewhere between bewildered and impressed. Her gaze drifted from him to the plates on the counter, then back to him, her expression softening into something more like awe. "I didn't know you could do this."

Harry chuckled, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel. "Guess it's one of the perks of getting up early. Besides," he continued, "my aunt always loved cooking, and she showed me a few things."

Thea took a seat at the table, her attention fixed on the feast he'd laid out. She reached for a fork, spearing a piece of pancake, and took a bite, eyes widening even more. "Well, I'd say you didn't lose any of that talent in those five years," she said, chewing thoughtfully. "I mean, this is like… restaurant-level good."

Harry laughed, setting a fresh cup of coffee in front of her. "Thanks. Trust me, I missed food like this. It would've been nice to have even a sprinkle of pepper back on the island, let alone real spices."

Thea grinned, pouring syrup over her pancakes. "I'm sure," she teased. "Bet you didn't get many chances to practice your pancake flipping either, huh?"

"Not exactly. My 'cooking' was mostly skewering fish over a fire, if I was lucky," he replied, sitting across from her with a smirk.

"Well, lucky for me," she said, raising her fork in a mock toast, "that means more pancakes now."

"I might have to charge you for those."

"You can put it on my tab," she retorted before diving back into her food. All Harry could do was shake his head. As Thea finished her omelet, she looked up at him, a thought crossing her mind.

"So… is this a 'feeling-like-cooking' kind of thing, or do you always cook when you're up this early?" she asked, still eyeing the feast he'd put together as if he'd done this every day of his life.

Harry shrugged, sipping his coffee and leaning back in his chair.

"A little bit of both, I guess. Some days, I would just get up and do it. Other days, I'd stare at the fridge and wonder why I didn't grab something easier." He grinned, his mind flicking back to the lack of options on the island—creek water, fish, rabbit, and a whole lot of nothing else.

Thea nodded, seemingly satisfied with the answer. She paused for a moment, glancing over at the plate, then back at Harry. Her expression softened, though the curiosity in her eyes didn't quite fade.

"You know, I'm still trying to wrap my head around all of this," she said quietly, setting her fork down. "You and Oliver… it's like you guys just popped out of nowhere."

Harry's eyes flickered to hers. The words landed differently now, reminding him that while it was natural for Oliver to go home, for everyone else it was different. Five years spent thinking he was dead, and now he was just… back.

"Yeah," he said, his voice quieter than before. "We kind of did."

Thea watched him for a moment, then shifted in her seat, seeming to weigh her next words carefully.

"I mean… I know it's not the same for you guys, but I'm still trying to picture it. You guys didn't know each other before you ended up on that island, right?"

He let out a soft chuckle, the memory of meeting Oliver still fresh, even though it had been years.

"Nope. We met on the Queen's Gambit. The whole 'you're stranded together' thing kind of forces you to get to know someone real quick."

She blinked, seeming a little surprised at his bluntness, but there was a softness in her gaze as she took it in.

"I guess I can't imagine being in that situation with a complete stranger. You two must've become pretty close."

Harry tilted his head, considering it for a moment.

"Yeah, we did; Oliver's like my brother, I can't imagine what my life would be like without him."

"Well, it's nice to see you're both adjusting," she said, her voice lighter now. "I mean, I can't even wrap my head around the idea of all the time you lost. It's gotta be weird, right, coming back to all this after so long."

"Weird's one way to put it," Harry chuckled. "In some ways, it's simpler now. I didn't have to worry about traffic or city noise—just finding my next meal and staying warm. The only good thing about the island was the quiet."

"That's one of the perks of being away from the city," Thea quipped with a grin. "Beats the daily grind of honking horns and morning chaos. Urban hangovers are the worst."

Harry raised an eyebrow but kept his thoughts to himself. Oliver had mentioned Thea's drinking and drug problems before they returned to Starling City. She'd gone down a darker path than Oliver ever had at her age—different circumstances, sure, but still a problem. Over the past few days, though, she seemed calmer. Maybe it was Oliver's return that had steadied her.

"I think that's just the perk of having money," he said lightly, taking a sip of his coffee. "You get to decide how far you want to live from the noise."

Before Thea could reply, the sound of approaching footsteps caught both their attention. She turned toward the doorway, her eyes lighting up as a familiar figure entered the kitchen.

For a moment, he couldn't place her. She looked familiar, but her name eluded him. Harry's brow furrowed as he glanced at Thea, catching the way her expression shifted. The smile spreading across her face was almost identical to the one she'd worn when they first arrived at the manor—a kind of joy he rarely saw from her. He felt a twinge of guilt; he should know who this was.

The woman stood in the doorway, her dark brown hair streaked with silver and pinned neatly into a low bun. Her olive-toned skin was touched by age, faint lines framing her kind eyes and a warm, welcoming smile. She wore a cream blouse tucked into tailored slacks—simple but elegant—and carried herself with an ease that hinted at a deeper connection to the household. She didn't have the air of one of the manor's ordinary staff. No, this woman seemed far more familiar, more integral.

"Thea!" she greeted warmly, but Thea didn't wait for more.

"Raisa!" Thea exclaimed, leaping out of her chair and rushing to embrace her. "I missed you so much!"

Harry blinked as the realization finally settled in. Raisa. Oliver had spoken of her before—how she'd been like a second mother to him and Thea. How had he not recognized her right away? He felt a flicker of embarrassment, quickly replaced by another thought that twisted in his gut. Where had she been when Oliver came home?

Raisa returned the embrace warmly, a smile spreading across her face.

"I missed you, dear." she said, her voice laced with a faded Russian accent.

Thea pulled back, her expression softening some.

"How's your sister? I've been thinking about her since I heard she was in the hospital," Thea said softly.

Harry's brow furrowed slightly as the pieces clicked into place. So that's why Raisa hadn't been at the manor when Oliver came home—she'd been dealing with a family emergency.

"She's doing well. The procedure went smoothly, and she's resting at home now," Raisa said as Thea stepped back, a relieved smile on her face.

Raisa's gaze shifted to Harry, who was still standing awkwardly by the table, caught halfway between trying to look casual and staring. Her warm eyes studied him for a moment before her lips curved into a knowing smile.

"Let me guess… you must be Harry."

Harry straightened, clearing his throat as the realization hit that he'd been gawking. So much for playing it cool.

"The one and only," he replied, quickly grabbing a plate. "Are you hungry?"

"You should definitely take him up on it—it's amazing," Thea chimed in, nudging Raisa toward the table.

Raisa chuckled softly, stepping forward.

"I'm impressed."

"It's like riding a bike," Harry said with a small grin, walking around the table to pull out a chair for her. "It comes back pretty quick."

"Oh, and a gentleman too?" Raisa remarked as she sat down, her tone playful.

"He didn't do that for me," Thea interjected with a mock pout, crossing her arms.

"That's for using up all the hot water." Harry explained, shooting her a mischievous look.

Thea rolled her eyes dramatically before plopping back into her seat. Harry turned back to the counter, gathering the rest of the breakfast spread onto a plate and placing it in the microwave for Oliver. If his timing was right, the eldest Queen would be making his way downstairs soon, and Harry wanted to make sure there was something ready for him.

Raisa's eyes widened as she took her first bite of the omelet.

"If you keep cooking like this, I might just lose my job."

"You don't even know half of it," Thea chimed in, pointing her fork at Harry. "He's been flipping pancakes like he's auditioning for a cooking show."

"I wouldn't go that far," Harry replied with a smirk, setting a steaming cup of coffee in front of Raisa. "I just get bored easily. Originally, I was going to go back to bed, but Walter mentioned these omelets from a little shop by the hospital, and suddenly I was starving."

Thea clasped her hands together in mock reverence, grinning.

"Thank you, Walter!"

Harry shook his head, chuckling as he pulled out a chair and sat down with them. The three settled in, the kitchen filling with the warmth of laughter and the quiet clinking of silverware. And as Thea grinned at her plate, Harry found himself pausing. The simplicity of it all—the smells, the laughter—was almost foreign to him. For a moment, he wasn't sure if he belonged here or if he was still acting a part.

Walter's gaze drifted across the cozy little café, its warm amber lighting contrasting with the soft morning glow filtering through the large windows. The scent of freshly brewed coffee and baked pastries filled the air, mingling with the quiet murmur of early risers engaged in their conversations. Across from him, Moira sat cradling her coffee, staring out the window, lost in thought.

He took a slow breath, his fingers tapping lightly against the rim of his cup, gathering his thoughts. A part of him doubted this conversation would go smoothly, but it needed to happen. Finally, he set his cup down, leaning forward slightly.

"Moira," he began gently, his voice low enough to blend with the café's hum, "I think we should tell Oliver about us. Today, if possible."

Moira's gaze lifted, her expression guarded as she met his eyes. She studied him for a moment before responding.

"Walter, we've talked about this. I want to, but... it's complicated. The timing, with everything he's been through—"

"Moira," Walter interrupted softly but firmly, "Oliver deserves to know. Harry already figured it out."

She blinked, caught off guard. A flicker of worry crossed her face as she pursed her lips.

"Harry knows? Did he... say anything?"

Walter nodded.

"Nothing condemning, no. Actually, he was surprisingly understanding. The point is, if he could tell so quickly, Oliver will too, if he hasn't already."

Moira set her cup down on its saucer, her fingers grazing the delicate edge as her gaze drifted away. Walter watched her, the weight of the moment settling between them. She wasn't looking at him anymore, her eyes distant as she stared out the window, lost in her thoughts. When her voice came, it was quiet, almost as if she hadn't meant for him to hear it.

"I've been trying to keep things stable for him," she murmured, the words more to herself than to him. Her mind wandered back to a time when the distance between her and Oliver could be managed. She had always been the one to hold things together, to create some semblance of normalcy amid the chaos. But now, with everything changing so quickly, it was slipping through her fingers.

When the news of Robert and Oliver's disappearance hit, Moira had found herself trying to soothe a twelve-year-old Thea, crying late into the night for her father and brother to come home. She had struggled to keep the house together—her own mood swings, the false sympathies from people looking to latch onto the Queen family's name, the funeral arrangements… it had been the beginning of a long, tiring ordeal. Walter had helped carry the burden. And now, with Oliver back, she had hoped things might finally become manageable.

"He's been through so much," she continued, her voice heavy. Walter saw the flicker of concern in her eyes, the way she carried the weight of her son's pain like a second skin. "I thought if I could give him something familiar..."

Her words trailed off, unfinished, as if the thought itself were fading before she could complete it.

"I understand that," Walter said gently. "But Oliver's a grown man. He can handle it. Honestly, I think he'll appreciate us being upfront about it. He deserves to know what's changed and what hasn't since he came back."

A sigh escaped Moira as her face softened, weariness settling in. Her eyes met his, searching for reassurance.

"Do you really think he'll understand?"

Walter reached across the table, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. "I do. It's not like we got together the moment he and Robert disappeared. This happened slowly, over years. And it wasn't easy for either of us. We've waited long enough."

Moira studied his face for a moment, doubt still lingering in her eyes. Slowly, though, she gave a faint nod, her hand tightening around his.

"Alright," she said softly. "We'll tell him today."

There was a brief silence before Moira cleared her throat, changing the subject. "Oh, I almost forgot—I won't be heading to the office today. I'll be meeting with potential bodyguards for the boys instead."

Walter raised an eyebrow, a small smirk tugging at his lips. "That was quick—didn't even take twenty-four hours."

"I just want them to be safe."

"I understand, sweetheart." Walter nodded warmly. "Anyone standing out among the resumes so far?"

Moira leaned back in her seat, her fingers absently tracing the rim of her coffee cup as she thought.

"A few," she replied. "There's one in particular I'd like to meet—ex-military. Stellar qualifications."

"Sounds like a good lead, then. Hopefully, they'll be what you're looking for."

Moira smiled faintly, her gaze drifting back out the window. Walter took another sip of his coffee, and the two sat in comfortable silence as the conversation came to a natural pause.

Oliver's eyes snapped open, his breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. A thin layer of sweat clung to his forehead, and he could feel the pounding of his heart against his ribs. His room was dim, morning light just beginning to seep through the curtains, but for a moment, everything felt too loud, too real.

He sat up abruptly, a tightness in his chest making it difficult to catch his breath. His hands instinctively pressed to his face, wiping away the beads of sweat. His fingers trembled slightly, but he didn't let himself linger on it.

With a quiet exhale, he shook his head, as if trying to rid himself of the weight that was pressing down on him. His body still felt heavy, the remnants of whatever dream—or nightmare—he had lingering in his veins, but it didn't matter… not now.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his feet hitting the cold floor with a muted thud. He paused for a second, steadying himself.

The quiet of the room enveloped him. He wasn't sure how long he'd been lying there, but time felt irrelevant. He reached for the t-shirt he'd left on the chair, pulling it over his head before grabbing a pair of sweats from the foot of the bed. He didn't bother with shoes, the soft fabric of his sweats comfortable enough as he moved toward the door.

He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it, and then moved toward the stairs. There were voices coming from downstairs, stopping him in his tracks. It was too early to be dealing with people. He contemplated going back to his room or secretly leaping out a window to get some fresh air without attracting any attention.

I can't avoid everyone. Oliver reminded himself, before shaking his head and walking down to the kitchen.

He wasn't sure what to expect, but it certainly wasn't the sight that greeted him.

Harry sat at the table, casually sipping his coffee, while Raisa and Thea were in the middle of a light-hearted conversation. The last time he'd seen Raisa was five years ago, right before he boarded the Queen's Gambit. Seeing her here, in the kitchen, at the table like it was any other morning… it felt wrong, yet right all the same.

Raisa looked up at the sound of his footsteps. Her expression softened, her eyes lighting up like they hadn't missed a beat. She stood with a graceful motion, her smile growing warmer with each step she took toward him.

"Oliver," she said, her voice thick with emotion, and before he could even react, she closed the distance between them and pulled him into a tight embrace.

For a moment, he stood there, frozen, feeling the familiar weight of her arms around him, the same arms that had once comforted him and Thea during darker times. The ache in his chest loosened, if only a little. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed this, how much he'd missed her.

"I thought you were lost forever," she whispered into his ear, her voice barely audible. "I'm so glad you're home."

Oliver pulled back just enough to look at her, his hand cupping her cheek as if confirming that she was real.

"I'm sorry, Raisa," he said, his voice tight with the things he didn't know how to say. "I should've been here."

She smiled softly, shaking her head.

"You're here now. That's all that matters."

His throat tightened, but he fought it down, clearing his voice and straightening up. He was home now, after all. There was no need to dwell on what couldn't be fixed.

He stepped back slightly, glancing at the others around the table. Thea was watching him with a quiet understanding in her eyes, and Harry—well, Harry was watching him too, but there was no judgment in his gaze, only something close to empathy.

"You okay?" Thea asked, her voice light but sincere.

Oliver nodded, still standing awkwardly in the kitchen doorway. He cleared his throat, then looked at Raisa, his smile small but real.

"Yeah, it's just… a lot to take in."

Raisa gave him a reassuring smile and gestured toward the table.

"Come, sit. You must be hungry."

Oliver nodded, finally walking toward the table and pulling out a chair. He sat down, keeping his hands folded in front of him for a moment as he gathered his thoughts.

Harry cleared his throat, shifting in his seat.

"Plate's in the microwave," he said casually, trying to ease the tension that had settled over the room. "If you want to eat, that is."

Oliver glanced at him, then back at Raisa. There was something vulnerable in his expression, something that hadn't been there in years. It made Harry feel like maybe they weren't as far apart as they sometimes seemed.

"Thanks," Oliver muttered quietly, and though his tone was a little strained, Harry could see the relief in his eyes.

Later, after the quiet chatter had settled and the last plates were cleared, Harry and Oliver stepped out onto the back porch. The morning air was cool, carrying the scent of dew and freshly cut grass. Harry stuffed his hands in his pockets, his shoulders a little more relaxed now that the tension had settled.

"So," Oliver said, breaking the silence. He stared into the distance, his voice shifting to a more stoic tone. "How'd it go last night?"

"The lair's operational," Harry replied, his voice carrying a note of quiet pride. "Went about as smoothly as it could have. When we get some time, we can head over there together to check it out. I think you'll like it."

Oliver nodded, though his gaze remained fixed somewhere beyond the horizon. "Good. It'll be useful."

Harry glanced at him, noting the subtle tightness in his tone, but he didn't press. Oliver's mood had been shifting all morning, though he hadn't said much about it. Instead, Harry let the quiet stretch between them as they stepped off the porch and into the yard.

The soft crunch of gravel under their feet was the only sound as they neared the old stone path at the back of the property. Oliver slowed, his posture stiffening. Harry followed his gaze and saw the weathered tombstones marking the family plot. It was clear from Oliver's hesitation that he hadn't been back here since returning home.

The sight of them gave Harry pause, especially when his eyes landed on one of the markers: Oliver Jonas Queen, May 16th, 1985 - July 20th, 2007. The irony wasn't lost on him—standing here alive, staring at your own grave. Seeing his own name carved into stone hit him like a blow, a stark reminder of the life he was never supposed to return to.

But Oliver's attention wasn't on his own tombstone or even Robert's. His gaze drifted to a third marker set slightly apart, the stone smaller and more weathered than the others. The name carved into it read: Stephen Julius Queen, April 7th, 1984 - February 13th, 1989.

Harry's brow furrowed as he read the inscription. He hadn't heard the name before, and something about it struck him as out of place.

"Who's Stephen?" he asked, his voice quiet.

Oliver stopped walking, his attention fixed on the grave. His jaw tightened slightly, and his hands curled into loose fists at his sides. For a long moment, he didn't say anything.

"My older brother," Oliver finally said, his voice clipped, distant.

Harry blinked, caught off guard.

"You've never mentioned him."

Oliver exhaled sharply, his gaze still locked on the tombstone.

"There's not much to say. He died in his sleep when he was four. I was three. I barely remember him."

Harry tilted his head slightly, his brow furrowing.

"I mean, you were still there, though. That's got to leave something."

Oliver hesitated, as if weighing whether to continue.

"I remember… glimpses. His laugh. The way he used to run ahead of me, daring me to keep up. I don't think I ever caught him," he said with a faint, hollow chuckle. "But most of what I know is secondhand. My dad… he never talked about Stephen, not really. But I could see it. The way he looked at me sometimes, like I wasn't him."

Harry shifted uncomfortably.

"That's not fair to you," he said quietly.

Oliver shrugged, his gaze never leaving the gravestone.

"Maybe. But it wasn't easy for him either. Losing a kid… I can't imagine. It changed him. He was harder after that, more distant. I think part of him died with Stephen."

He exhaled, his shoulders stiffening as if bracing against the memory.

Harry didn't respond immediately, letting Oliver's words hang in the air. The silence between them was heavy but not stifling, as if the moment needed to breathe on its own.

"You think about him much?" Harry asked finally.

"Not often," Oliver admitted, his voice low. "But when I do, it feels… strange. Like I should remember more than I do. Like I owe him that."

Harry nodded, unsure what else to say. He didn't have a sibling, much less one he'd lost. But he could feel the weight of it in Oliver's words, even if they came wrapped in restraint.

"Your dad might have changed after that, but it doesn't change the fact he loved you. He wouldn't have done what he did if he didn't."

"I know… it just makes me wonder how often he was thinking about my brother when we were doing something together," he admitted. Harry placed a hand upon his shoulder and squeezed gently.

"Ollie, if there's one thing I know… when Robert was with you, he was focused on you. You mattered to him. Focus on that."

A soft breeze stirred the air, rustling the grass and carrying the faint scent of the morning dew. Oliver's gaze lingered on Stephen's tombstone, his expression unreadable as the weight of the moment settled over him.

Behind them, at the back door, Moira stood silently. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and her eyes softened as she took in the sight of the two men standing together. Her fingers curled lightly around the frame of the door, but she didn't call out. Instead, she lowered her head, a small, sad smile crossing her face before she turned and stepped back inside, leaving them to their quiet reflection.

Harry and Oliver stood in silence for a while longer, the breeze carrying the unspoken words between them, as the morning stretched on.