Sara nods like she's not surprised in the slightest that's his answer. Or that Oliver, being who he is and how quickly he decides things, especially the too important, too impossible, too unchosen, things he should never have to think about, doesn't. Doesn't wait. Doesn't think. Doesn't say anything less than what she expects.

"Still," she says, as she stops tapping the flat of the blade on her skin and offers him that dagger back. "It's there, if you change your mind later."

Sometimes it happened, and it might. They'd known each other long enough to not owe each other anything like airs. It might seem impossible to need space from her while it was still the first hour, night, day of seeing her alive, again, for him. That didn't mean it'd still be that way once it sunk in, through the shock and the work, that she wasn't the girl he remembered.

That there was space in between, where she'd been, and who she'd become, and even who she ran away into time and became after that. But she can hope, with a steady gaze on those familiar, as her own breath, blue eyes above her, that it might not happen, or that when it does, like all their other rises and falls, it'll be fine on the other side, of it, and this, and time, altogether, too.