Hey guys! I don't even want to know how long it's been since I've updated this story but I had some time this week and I was feeling a bit inspired (and hiatus is slowly killing me haha) so here's a new chapter! Hope you guys like what you read! :)

Alas, I do not own Arrow.


Felicity had decided earlier that day that she was going to give the graduation party at Tommy's house a miss, mainly because her head was in a weird place after her conversation with Oliver about London, and the idea of surrounding herself with people she really didn't spend much time with school was super unappealing. Quite frankly, sitting at home with a tub of mint chocolate chip ice cream and watching a terrible film sounded completely amazing.

And truth be told, it was amazing. She was quite pleased with her decision, actually.

Sitting on her bed, wearing her favourite pyjamas, the TV on, ice cream – what more could she want? She needed a night like this. A night to help her remember that she was still a teenager, who was still able to take time out and just… flake. Everything had been so hyper-intense lately and somehow, even though she thought it was impossible, Felicity had reached a whole new level of stress. Who knew that she could be more stressed? She always felt like she lived and operated out of a place of tension in general and recently, it just felt as though she had this gargantuan boulder resting on her shoulders; sleep was evading her, her appetite was coming and going, and she was really irritable. She was basically the mayor of Stressville at this point.

So, a night in alone had to be good for the soul, right?

She knew Oliver was probably going to show his face at the party. There was no way Tommy was going to let him miss it, and Oliver was nothing but loyal when it came to his best friend. And to her. It was the one of the many things she loved about him. Tommy did send her a few whiny texts and few pictures to make her feel bad and to show her what an unbelievable time she was missing out on to which Felicity sent pictures of her ice cream and fluffy slippers in reply, but no, she was content with letting them enjoy a wild night and content with filling her mind with garbage.

But, no joke, as soon as she had turned out the light and got into bed, her phone pinged and lit up with a message.

Then another message.

And then a picture.

Followed by another picture.

In the space of ten minutes, her phone received over thirty messages and pictures.

And in that moment, sitting up in her bed in the dark, phone right up to her face, the quiet hum of activity on the street outside the only sound to be heard aside from her quickening breaths, Felicity's heart cracked.


This wasn't good.

This was worse than not good. This was the worst thing he could think of.

Oliver spent the night wide awake, looking at the pictures, trying to figure out how each one depicted the wrong truth. Every single snap showed, what looked to be, a very happy couple – smitten, even – whether they were chatting before the infamous kiss or during the actual lip-lock.

Why were his hands brushing her hips? When did her hand make it to the side of his face?

Oliver couldn't remember a time when he had been so angry at himself. He actually felt as though he was going to be sick – like, physically sick. Sweat trickled across his hairline, making his hair stick to his head, and he had to change his t-shirt twice because his whole body had gone into this weird shaky, perspiring state. There was no point in getting into bed under the covers because his mind was going a mile a minute so he chose, instead, to pace back and forth and back and forth and back and forth, and then he sat at his desk for a while with his eyes closed, and then he plodded downstairs to drink five glasses of water and then he went back up to his bedroom to pace some more because at least if he was doing that, the energy thrumming through his system was going somewhere.

Every now and again, his eye would catch the framed photograph of him and Felicity that he had sitting on his bedside locker and his heart would drop again.

Never, ever, ever would he cheat on Felicity.

She was everything to him.

But those pictures with Laurel…it definitely didn't look that way, and judging by the messages he was receiving from random people and classmates alike – news travelled fast in Starling City – no one else was buying it either. Playboy Oliver Queen had returned.

And there was still no word from Felicity.

His stomach churned even more. He knew she had seen it by now and he knew he had to talk to her. That that was the very first thing a loyal and loving boyfriend would do. A loyal and loving boyfriend would have called or, better yet, showed up at her door in the middle of the night bearing apologies and truth and declarations of love and how there was no one else he'd want to be with in this life. A loyal and loving boyfriend would have told her that she was the only one who could light his way, who could make him feel like he could do anything, who let him know that he was never alone, who told him and showed him what it meant to love and be loved.

Three times he stopped himself from leaving the house and doing just that, but it wasn't because he didn't love her.

It was because he did.


Oliver hadn't called. Or text. Or shown up at her door.

The whole night Felicity lay awake waiting for him, expecting him, but daylight broke and there was still no sign of him. Every fibre of her being screamed to make the first move; oh, she'd keep her cool and play it nonchalant and act as if she was totally unfazed by the whole thing when in actuality she was anything but, yet something else inside her caught her every single time she picked up her phone and her finger hovered over his name on the screen. Why should she reach out first? Surely it was his responsibility to make contact, right? After all, he was the one with his lips and hands all over another girl's body – actually scratch that, not just another girl's body but Laurel freakin' Lance's body! Like of all the girls to be in that picture with him of course it had to be Laurel Lance. Why did it have to be her? Like really, what kind of sick joke was this? Was she being played? Had she been played this whole time? There he was telling her he loved her and that she was the best person he had ever known and that he wanted to be with her forever and yet, here was this picture – multiple pictures at that – that showed him kissing her. Eyes closed, bodies leaning in, hands feeling the air around her hips, her hand on his cheek.

Ugh, why hadn't he just…called? Just to put all of her insecurities to rest. Tell her he loved her. That it was all a misunderstanding (even though she wasn't sure how anything like that could be a misunderstanding; it seemed pretty obvious that they were both into it…but she'd listen to him, hear him out).

She just needed to speak to him.

And then, as if by some magical intervention, the doorbell rang.

Felicity hopped out her bed and looked at her alarm clock. 11:43 a.m.

11:43 a.m. and she was still wearing her pyjamas.

Of course she was.

With a resigned and resolute nod, she steeled herself, threw her hair up into a tidier ponytail, put on her glasses and made her way downstairs.

She would know that silhouette through the stained glass of her front door anywhere.

Slowly, and with a deep breath, she turned the handle and cracked the door open just enough so that he could see her full frame.

He looked…sad.

Her pulse raced. And not in the good way.

"Hey," he said, his smile not reaching his eyes. "Can I come in?"

The blonde tried to smile, tried to look carefree, but even she knew it was falling flat. "Sure," she replied, her voice practically a whisper, and she opened the door fully and let him in.


He told himself over and over and over again that he was making the right decision, that he had to do it, that it was the only way, but the second she opened the door and he saw her make-up free in her pizza pyjamas, his knew his resolve was melting.

God, he loved her so much.

Why was this so hard? They were just teenagers; they shouldn't have had to worry about stuff like this.

She looked…reserved. Cautious. Her eyes were a little red, like she hadn't slept all night.

Oliver took a deep breath.

The short walk to her living room was quiet, and the room itself was illuminated by the searing sun outside, conflicting with the mood between them. The air was heavy, pressing in on them. He started to sweat again.

Felicity walked over to the fireplace, Oliver stayed near the doorway. Neither of them sat.

"You look nice," he said, trying to break the ice.

His girlfriend laughed once, surprised. "You do realize I'm in my pyjamas, right?"

He shrugged, a small smile tugging at his lips. "They're cute."

"You bought them for me when I was sick last winter."

A short huff of amusement escaped him. "I remember."

But then Oliver dropped his eyes to stare at the floor, following one of the patterns on the wood for a few seconds, unable to look at her.

Silence stuttered between them.

"I'm sorry I didn't come sooner. I…should have come sooner," he eventually said.

"You didn't even call."

"I know. I should hav-"

"Then why didn't you?" the blonde cut in, hurt evident in every syllable.

Numerous replies flew through his head, all of them ready and willing to make things okay, to fix them and make them stronger, but…she had to go to London. She had to take the opportunity to be great, without anything – or anyone - holding her back.

Because she was better than great and the whole world needed to see that.

So when she asked, "Then why didn't you?" he responded with, "Because I was ashamed."


Ashamed.

Of all the words Felicity expected to hear, that was not one of them. She expected scared. Worried. Anything else, really. She expected a cool, suave, seamless sentence that would have at least dulled the beating of her heart and eased the tightness in her chest.

Not 'ashamed'.

Ashamed implied that he felt guilt for a reason. Not just because it was a mistake or a misunderstanding, but because he did something wrong.

She swallowed hard, hating the way one word had her emotions betraying her, hating the spring of tears in her eyes, hating how he couldn't even look at her. Suddenly she felt much smaller, much younger than her years, like this was happening at the wrong time and she wasn't ready for it yet.

Was this really happening?


He desperately wanted to look at her. Wanted to gaze deep into her eyes and drink them in for as long as humanly possible. Wanted to drown in them. Wanted to stop time and just feel that feeling one more time before it was gone, before the spark was extinguished, before the pain and the hurt and the sorrow crept in and everything was ruined.

But her quiet intake of breath forced him to keep his eyes everywhere except at her. Oliver could almost hear the wheels in her head turning, coming up with conclusions.

Finally she spoke. Quiet. Measured. "Why are you ashamed, Oliver?"

He went through his options again. "Because…" he paused, forming his sentence, "…because it happened and it made me realize something."

"I assume the 'it' you're referring to is the kiss between you and Laurel?"

The sharpness of her words made him visibly wince. "Yes. Laurel and I kissed."

He didn't need to look at her to know her heart had sunk.

His sank, too.

"Why?" she whispered.

He raised his head, eyes locking with hers. "It was a mistake," he started. "I went one way, she went the same way…" he trailed off, noting the slightest glimmer of hope in her stare and knew he had to finish this off as soon as he could before he completely chickened out. He couldn't and wouldn't be the one to hold her back from her future. "We didn't mean to kiss, we didn't plan to kiss, and it wasn't supposed to happen. But that's not why I'm ashamed."

Felicity wrapped her arms around herself. "Oliver, what is going on here?"

"The kiss and even just talking with Laurel beforehand made me…think about stuff."

"What kind of stuff? Stuff like…" she closed her eyes, shoulders high, "…us?"

A film of tears covered his eyes and he faced the sunlight just for a second to make sure that it didn't develop any further. "Yeah, stuff like us."

She was hurt now, and he could feel rather than see the walls coming up. "Oh well then please do elaborate because clearly you have some sort of new insight on our relationship that I would like to hear all about."

"Please don't be like that," he begged softly, not wanting this to turn into something uglier than he intended.

"Be like what?" she blurted, arms out wide now. "Oliver, I went to bed last night and everything was fine – perfect, even, and within the space of a few minutes I was bombarded with pictures of my boyfriend, who claims to love me by the way, kissing another girl. And not just any girl - oh no, the girl everyone knows he had a crush on for years before I came along. Imagine how that made me feel. Imagine how it feels to wait up all night to hear from him to find out what really happened, to want nothing more than to have him apologise for making me look like a fool in front of our whole class – because that's how I look, by the way, Oliver. I look like a fool for ever believing that playboy billionaire Oliver Queen loves me." He opened his mouth to speak but she continued on, words tumbling past her lips, "And now imagine that said boyfriend is standing in front of me telling me that that kiss wasn't really a kiss but that it has somehow opened his eyes and given him a fresh new perspective on our relationship. So please, Oliver, you tell me how I'm supposed to be because I'm so confused." Tears were eking their way out of her eyes now, arms and hands spinning around with every sentence like they needed to be doing something.

The room was suddenly so much smaller, like it was about to swallow them up.

Oliver ran his hands through his hair, every emotion bouncing around his frame. "I just…I think…we're so young, Felicity. I mean, we're not kids but we're not adults either. We don't have to have it all figured out right now– we're not supposed to have it all figured out right now. We're supposed to just, I don't know, live. This is the time where we try new things and make mistakes and find out what we're meant to do."

"Did you read that in a brochure or something because it sounds like a load of shit."

"Felicity, please-"

She took a few steps toward him, shoulders square, pain colouring her features. "Oliver is this your way of telling me that you want to see other people? Is 'try new things' really just a cover up for the fact that you feel, what, trapped with me and you want out? Because if I remember correctly, you were all in with us." Her bottom lip quivering, she settled her blues on his. "That's how you made me feel anyway. Like I was what you wanted."

It took everything ounce of strength not to pull her to him and kiss her for all of eternity. She was what he wanted. And what he would always want. He would never not love Felicity Smoak.

"There's someone better for you," was all he could manage. "You deserve better than me and when you meet him you'll know it straight away and you'll know that I was right. I just think we owe it to ourselves to... not be too set on what we think we want."

"I don't want anybody else, Oliver."

The sentence hung in the air, the words curling between them.

I don't want anybody else either, he almost said but instead he stayed silent, knowing that there was nothing he could say to that that would make this conversation any easier.

Then all of a sudden Felicity's eyes hardened, all softness scattered as hers examined his.

"Did you enjoy it?"

"Enjoy what?"

"The kiss, Oliver. Did you enjoy it?"

"Well, it was a kiss-"

"Oliver it's a simple question: did you or did you not enjoy kissing Laurel Lance? Just please, God, tell me the truth."

This was it.

"I…" he hesitated, loathing himself. "I would be lying if I said I didn't."

And that was it.

That was the moment that Oliver Queen broke Felicity Smoak's heart.


It was as though someone was sucking all of the air out of her lungs and she was frantically gasping for whatever was left as she moved herself as far away from him as the room allowed. Her vision was blurred, obscured by so many tears that she thought her eyes might just fall out of her face with the weight of them and she walked into the side of the armchair in her haste, hurting her knee in the process.

Oliver was quick to move to her aid but one swift hand movement had him stopped dead in his spot.

Felicity couldn't believe what was happening. Oliver wanted Laurel. All of this crap about not settling and moving on to different things was just to cover himself over the fact that he got a taster of what it'd be like if he wasn't with her. He got bored. Simple as that. He told Felicity he loved her, that he wanted to be with her, that there would never be anyone else, and yet as soon as something else cropped up, he jumped at it because it looked a little more fun and a little more exciting. Who wants to be settled with a girlfriend at eighteen, right? You want to play the field. He had his fill with her and now he's done.

She just wasn't enough.

"Felicity-"

Her hand came up to cover her heart, squeezing it like the action could keep it together. "Don't say my name like that. Don't you dare say my name like it's my favourite sound in the whole world. Just don't."

She'd never heard her voice go that low before.

Then again he'd never made her feel like this.

Rejected. Betrayed. Unwanted. Unloved.

Of course Oliver Queen didn't love her in that forever kind of way. Who was she kidding? He was just playing house for a while until he felt like it was time for something new.

Was there a word that described the exact moment you know your heart is well and truly broken?

Because that was how Felicity was feeling.

"I can't believe this. I actually thought you loved me." A harsh, humourless laugh escaped her lips, the action making her whole body lean forward with its weight.

"I did – I do," he retorted, eyes squeezed shut as if he couldn't connect his words to what he wanted to actually say and her heart tugged, scrambling for any kind of hope. He looked uncomfortable, as though his body was at war but he stayed rooted to the spot. Rigid. "I don't…I don't know what to say."

"I feel like you've said enough. I mean, it's like you said, right? We're so young; who are we to know what real love is? This was all just some kind of experiment or, I don't know, something to pass the time until graduation. I was just some distraction until something better came along."

"No," he interjected sternly, finally edging toward her. "My feelings are real-"

"If your feelings are real we wouldn't be having this conversation right now, Oliver."

Felicity had heard enough. She could barely hear him over the roaring in her ears and she couldn't stand there and let him rip her heart to pieces any longer.

To his credit, a flicker of hurt crossed his face, his eyes glazed over in some kind of fog. "Felici-"

"You need to go," she said with as much grit as she could manage, finger pointing toward the window. "I don't want you here anymore."


Oliver had played this scene out in his head a million times and every time he envisioned something different, but he never factored in how much it would destroy him to hear the heartbreak in her voice, to see her so cold and defensive, to know that he was the one responsible for causing her so much pain.

But he couldn't make this better. Even if he wanted to, and God, he really wanted to, he couldn't take back anything he said. He knew by the strain in her beautiful blue eyes that the damage had been done.

Warring with himself to the point where he could barely stand it anymore, he shoved his hands into his pockets and turned his back to her. "I'm so sorry, Felicity," he breathed, not willing to risk a glance back, and he left.


The door clicked shut so softly that Felicity wasn't sure it had happened and against her better judgement, she shuffled out of the room into the hallway just to be sure.

She wasn't sure what she was expecting to see but when she saw the empty space and the closed door she knew it was over.

Standing there in her hallway in her pizza pyjamas that he had bought her, Felicity cried.


He could hear her broken sniffles from the other side of the door, his heart unable to lead him away from the house just yet.

It was done. Now she could be free to pursue her dreams.

And sitting on the steps outside the Smoak household, Oliver allowed himself to cry, too.


Oliver was nervous.

Today was the day he was going to tell Felicity the truth – the whole truth, every grimy bit of detail, every poor decision made, every regret he had.

He wasn't looking for forgiveness; he was looking to amend the lies and to tell her how he really felt. That that eighteen-year-old kid was in way over his head and was completely besotted with her. That that kind of love does exist and did exist for him then. That all of those things that he had said to her once upon a time were true and had always been true and would always be true.

He just hoped he could get the words out in a coherent, non-scrambling way. The last thing he wanted was to confuse her even more.

And obviously things were a little more complicated now with him being The Hood, or The Arrow as she had referred to him before, and with that piece of information came a whole other set of difficulties and complications and would not serve him that well when it came to the topic of lying.

But he prayed that by the end of the day, if nothing else, the air would be cleared. Or at least be a little clearer. He'd take that, too.

It was stupid how just the prospect of seeing Felicity made him feel like a lovesick teenager again. There he was standing in front of the mirror in his bedroom, checking out his fourth shirt. The first two were too formal for just hanging out in the mansion and the third was too bright. This one was short-sleeved and navy and he just wasn't totally sold on it.

Where was Speedy when he needed her? She was much better at this kind of thing than he was.

Maybe he was going too formal. Maybe a t-shirt was better.

But what if she wore a dress and then he looked like he didn't even try at all?

How could something so simple as picking out an outfit be so ridiculously hard?

He took a deep, swelling breath and tried to calm himself down. He had been in way more precarious situations before and he made them out alive. Everything was going to be just fine; it's just a shirt.

The ping of the doorbell yanked him from his internal monologue and he started, looking at himself once more in the mirror.

Navy short-sleeve it was, then.


Hope you enjoyed what you read! :)