Girls and guys, once again I have to thank you for your patience and overall awesomeness. Albi [all my love, my friend] and I are determined to get back to a more regular posting-schedule and we'll give our all not to make you wait so long anymore; promised.

As always, your amazing comments were bright rays of sunlight in the midst of everything. I can't thank you enough. Love, Jules


My life. My choice.

Silence was overrated. Oliver had never been a person who needed quiet to think. Much the opposite, he enjoyed listening to music while coding. Foo Fighter's "In your honor" was his personal soundtrack to hacking Google—because everybody could take a hit at the NSA, but taking on Google took balls. Back then Optimal Prime had felt the need to prove he had those. (Isabel had just broken up with him; he had been in a weird mindset.)

Oliver always believed he would be able to concentrate through anything.

Turns out, the irregular rattling of the training dummy was Oliver Queen's concentration-breaking Kryptonite.

Behind him Sara Lance attacked the wooden dummy with determination. It sounded like she was ready to kick it off its foundation or at least rip off one of the wooden sticks protruding from it. The staccato of sound was relentless but so anti-rhythmic that Oliver couldn't get used to it. Annoyance collected inside him with each blow, each time he lost his train of thought. An especially hard kick, accompanied by an especially loud bang, made him flinch.

He shot around, swiveling his chair. "Sara!" Her name left his lips like an angry snap.

The woman froze mid-movement, her fist in the air on its way to the dummy. She tilted her head to him.

"I'm trying to hack SCPD for your father. And I can't think."

Sara smirked. "Trying to win points with your girlfriend's stepdad, huh?" Her arms dropped, the smirk dimmed. "I told you: you don't have to feel bad he freaked at you for seeing me in my sports bra. That's my dad for you."

Well, her dad was very intimidating.

Downloading the police files was a chance to do Quentin Lance a favor and Oliver had grabbed it with both hands. "He asked me to get information the Commissioner won't give him access to."

The smirk returned full force. "I thought you were a hacking genius. And the local police gives you trouble?"

"They wouldn't, if you gave me five minutes to think."

She quirked a challenging eyebrow at him. "Five minutes?"

Oliver met her gaze evenly. Sara Lance might be a fighting machine/ perfect shooter/ level-headed strategist, but Oliver Queen had once been Optimal Prime and her challenge wasn't even a challenge. He gave her a confident grin. "Four minutes."

The blonde woman stepped away from the dummy and brought her arm up to make a show out of pressing a button on her watch. "Four minutes, genius. Go."

Without hesitation, Oliver swiveled back to his computer screens. Now that the Factory lay in silence, Oliver could finally think—and instantly he saw the vulnerability in SCPD's system.

Three minutes and some change later he took his hands off the keyboard, exaggerating the movement. "Done."

"Impressive." Sara's statement was spoken casually but genuinely. She had moved next to him. The code on his monitor probably meant nothing to her, but she had watched as he'd hacked. Her eyes were still on the screen and the files Oliver had downloaded. "Is that information on a homicide?"

"Yeah," Oliver answered. "Somebody stabbed an old woman—"

"Twenty-eight times," Sara stated, nodding. "Yeah. Dad told me about it. He was on call that day." She pointed at the screen. "They labeled it as a random robbery? A random robber stabbing a stranger twenty-eight times is possible—if the guy is an asshole full of rage and prone to violence. But that's unlikely. Getting so close to somebody to kill her with that much aggression—that feels personal."

Oliver looked up at Sara and couldn't help but wonder if she had some sort of personal insight. But he knew better than to ask. Instead, he nodded. "I think your father agrees. He wants to review the facts." He studied her. "Do you want to have a look, too?"

"Yes." Betraying her answer, she took a backwards step away from the desk and added, "Later." Her eyes fixed Oliver. "Since you're done with your hacking I want to go back to my training." She gestured to the dummy. "Want to join me?"

"Join you?" He didn't understand until things suddenly clicked. "You want to train with me?"

"Felicity told me you started going to the gym. I think that's a smart choice. Knowing that you're working with us, I'll sleep a lot easier knowing that you can handle yourself. At least a little bit." She motioned to the dummy. "Interested?"

Oliver shot up from his seat, signaling that he was interested, more than interested. He had never dared to ask, never found the way to bring it up to Felicity, let alone her stepsister. That Sara was offering was entirely unexpected, but awesome.

Seeing the excitement in his face, Sara gave an amused nod and headed back to the dummy. Oliver followed her, zipping his hoodie open and dumping it on the med table. Sara's eyes dragged over him for a second, taking in his appearance (and probably reading the writing on his shirt—I've got skills. They're multiplying—because you just had to read messages on t-shirts). She motioned for him to stand in front of the dummy. He did, turning sideways, his feet facing the dummy, his stance wide (like the fighters always do in Dead or Alive).

He felt good about his fighting stance until Sara, standing behind him, pressed against his back to make him crouch deeper and his shoulders bend a little more. "Better," she commented. "Okay, now. You're a tall guy. That means you have something both Felicity and I don't have: long reach. Use that." She motioned to the dummy. "Hit it."

He did. The wood gave a dull thud as his fist connected with it. A jab went through his hand. Ouch. That hurt.

"Okay," Sara said, unimpressed. "That sucked. Your skill's really multiplying."

Oliver sent her a glare, because—really—how was that supposed to be helpful? How was he supposed to just know how to throw a punch? He had never done that. His complete fighting knowledge came from watching movies and gaming. Pressing his lips together, he kept his flaring frustrations in.

Ignoring his glare and his obvious annoyance, Sara turned to assume a fighting position next to him. "Eyes on the dummy," she ordered and, putting her own words into action, she continued. "Bring your fist back, up to your chin." He mimicked her actions and she nodded. "When you move your arm forward you rotate your shoulder, your elbow's pointing outward. Your speed and your power's coming from your shoulder. Don't overextend your elbow." They both did it in slow motion a few times. Then Sara nodded again, jerking her head at the dummy. "Hit it again."

He did. This time the dummy rattled loudly on its foundation. Stunned, Oliver let his fist drop.

"Don't do that," Sara chided instantly. "If you drop your guard and your opponent's still standing, you're leaving yourself wide open."

Caught, Oliver raised his fist again. "Got 'cha." He took another jab at the dummy, enjoying the sound that was familiar but had never been created by him.

"What are you doing?"

Hearing Felicity's voice and the tension in her carefully enunciated question, Oliver shot around, startled. He hadn't heard her approach, hadn't expected her to pop up like that. His girlfriend stood behind him, arms crossed, glaring at Sara, who appeared entirely unimpressed.

"I'm teaching him some basics," Sara answered.

"He doesn't need to know basics. Or specifics."

"Yes, he does. He's working with us and he needs to know how to defend himself."

"Oh," Felicity's back straightened. "That's why you're teaching him offensive-moves."

"It was a jab, Felicity." Annoyance crept into Sara's voice. "I'm teaching him how to jab without dislocating his arm, I'm not—"

"He doesn't need to learn how to fight," Felicity cut in, strict. "He'll stay in the Factory, where it's safe. I don't want him anywhere near a fight."

"He can—"

"Hey!" This time, it was Oliver cutting Sara off. "He is standing right here."

Felicity sighed. "Oliver—"

"No. Not 'Oliver.' You don't get to talk about me as if I'm not right here. And you don't get to decide what I can and can't do. My life. My choice."

Felicity stared at him. "I…." She trailed off, looking caught. He could practically see her searching for words.

His objection and the strict tone he delivered it in had caught her off guard, he knew. He had managed to surprise himself at little, too. But she couldn't just make all decisions for him, boss him around like that.

He didn't have the slightest doubt that her insistence Oliver stay away from fights came from a good place. It was part of her way of caring for him. She always tried to protect him—whether from gossiping co-workers or judging one-percenters or mobsters threatening to crush his kneecaps. She looked out for him, and he appreciated her support. Oliver knew he wasn't a fighter. He knew that if anything ever happened (like maybe being faced with robbers on the street) his girlfriend, only reaching his shoulders, would be the one keeping him safe. He was fine with that. He didn't feel threatened by her fighting skills; they were part of who she was and he admired them.

But he needed the two of them to be equals in their decision-making. And he needed her to respect his decisions about his own life.

"Felicity," he said, sparing her from continuing her quest to find the right words, "I'm glad that Sara offered to teach me some things. I've been meaning to ask. I'd like to train with her, if she's up for it." He just put it out there, keeping it simple, knowing that neither he nor his girlfriend were comfortable discussing all the other, more complicated feelings attached in front of an audience—even if it was an audience of one stepsister.

"I'm up for it," Sara stated.

Felicity's lips pursed. "Fine," she said, sounding not really fine. "It's your decision." She squared her shoulders a little and gestured to Sara. "You've got a good trainer." Her eyes lingered on them for another second.

Oliver knew the last sentence was her peace offering, and all the acceptance she could offer him in this situation.

He nodded but Felicity was already turning around, heading toward his desk. Oliver's first thought was that she was bringing space between herself and the other two, but then he saw what had caught her attention.

The security feed showing the back alley entrance was displayed on the left one of the three screens—and showed a familiar blonde woman in front of the security panel. The sight made Oliver move instantly. Already hurrying toward the door, he called, "I'll let her in." The last word was barely past his lips when a loud horn boomed through the Factory. He groaned, stopped in frustration, and glanced at the ceiling, taking a deep breath.

Never would Mrs. Smoak-Lance—Donna! In the Factory he could call her Donna, he reminded himself. Calling Mrs. Smoak-Lance 'Donna' didn't come natural to him. At all.

He exhaled.

Never would Donna memorize the twenty-four numbers of the security code. Now he had to override the implemented security protocol locking down the Factory. Like he had done every day since Mrs. … Donna had first come to the Factory the week before.

Returning to his desk and his keyboard, he heard Felicity's phone ring. She answered with a, "Mom. I told you to call me so I could pick you up. We can't have people follow you here."

Whatever Donna answered had Felicity rolling her eyes. Oliver ignored that and focused on lifting the lockdown. He was just pressing the enter key, resetting the system, as Felicity hung up. "Mom, wants us to meet her upstairs. She has a—and I'm quoting her—'brilliant idea' she wants to share with us."

"Oh," Sara stated from where she stood next to the training dummy. "That sounds dubious."

"Yeah," was all Felicity said to that, already heading toward the stairs.

Sara sent Oliver a quick wink that felt like unspoken support. "We'll train some more later," she stated casually and signaled him to follow her.

Upstairs, the bare empty industrial hall welcomed them, along with Donna Smoak-Lance, a smile on her face and her arms stretched out wide. She stood in a patch of sunlight created by the huge, open gate behind her, but not even the sun could chase the dank and cold atmosphere away: rusting metal and old concrete, forgotten machinery and faded warning signs, dirty windows dulling the rest of the light shining on dirt and dust.

"Mom," Felicity asked warily, "what did you want to show us?"

"Potential." Mrs.— Donna answered and, seeing the questions in the faces of the people standing opposite her, continued in explanation, "This building, its layout, and its location have the potential of a great club."

"A club," Felicity stated flatly.

"Yes," Donna said, her smile widening. "Felicity and Sara, you'll open a new club in the Glades."

"We will?" Felicity said, clearly not happy.

"You will." Donna answered, clearly very pleased with herself.

"No, we won't."

"Yes, you will. It's perfect. It'll conceal your base of operations, give us all reasons to come here without raising any suspicions. Nobody will question you two opening a club, given your history. And it'll also bring life back to this part of the Glades—but you won't have any neighbors to complain about noise. I told you, it's a brilliant idea."

Oliver had to admit, her logic seemed sound. But knowing the woman opposite him, as a CEO and as a mother, Oliver knew it was Mrs. Smoak-Lance talking more than Donna. Sure, she was trying to protect her daughter and her secret identity, but the reasoning was very analytical, very business-like. And as analytical as Felicity was, this was one of the times when logic wasn't helping. The way his girlfriend slightly drew up her shoulders, how she stilled, showed Oliver that perfectly. He suspected that, for Felicity, it wasn't about logic, keeping her secret, or helping the Glades at all.

"It's really smart, strategically speaking." Sara ended the silence. Instantly, she was pinned down by Felicity's disbelieving stare. Sara raised her hands in a calming manner. "I'm just saying: the reasoning is sound."

"I know." Donna's smile turned into a grin. "I told you it was a brilliant idea."

"We don't know anything about managing a club. I don't have time t—"

"Felicity," her mother said, dropping the grin, turning serious. "You're a Smoak. You're in the public eye, whether you want to be or not. And you need to figure out your place in society, because your life's more than what you're doing in the dark. I need you to think about who you want to be besides that. And until you do you'll use your former image to create a distraction."

Breathing deliberately, Felicity stood perfectly still, taking pointed interest in a spot on the opposite wall. The thought that his girlfriend had a pretty crappy afternoon popped up in Oliver's head. Between him and her mother calling her out, she had a lot to deal with and her avoiding everybody's eyes showed him that she was struggling.

Felicity knew how to handle physical conflict but personal conflict left her uneasy, insecure. Sometimes Oliver wondered if her reputation of being an easy-going party girl had ever been justified, but then he reminded himself of her five years away from people with good social skills, five years without trusting anybody, five years heightening her defenses and making her believe that caring was a weakness. Plus: partying and being carefree didn't equal emotional connection or dealing with emotions and conflict in a mature way. She was still learning how to do the latter.

Whenever Oliver was alone with Felicity, her guard was down. She had gotten really good at taking his fears away and navigating his feelings and insecurities. Seeing her like this, struggling to deal with whatever her mother's words stirred in her, he suddenly realized that it was time he stepped up to help navigate her worries and fears.

Sadly, he didn't know what to do or say in this situation, not with her mother and her best friend present. He sensed that right now she needed a moment of detachment. He felt like it wasn't his place to say anything. (Plus, maybe, he was a little afraid to enter a conflict that directly involved Felicity and Mrs. … Donna.)

"Felicity," Donna's voice was soft. "Tell me what the problem is." It was a gentle request. Oliver made a mental note of the strategy.

Still not meeting anybody's eyes, Felicity said, her voice quiet but firm, "I don't like the idea."

"Why not?"

"I'm not that person anymore."

"Feli—" Like a sigh the first two syllables of her daughter's name fell from Donna's lips, but she dropped off when Felicity's eyes snapped to her, the strict glare shutting the mother up.

"You said it yourself: I've changed. You didn't want people to think of me as that girl anymore but now you want me to feed that image again."

"Sweetie." A sad, knowing smile on her face, Donna took a step toward her daughter. "I know."

"I hate how I was."

It was a quiet confession, turning Oliver's heart heavy. He knew he had fed her self-loathing, as some of his insecurities had been founded in her past—even though she hadn't given him any reason to think of her that way. She was a brilliant, strong, capable woman who cared deeply. About her family, about him, about right and wrong, about what other people thought of her, about how her image affected those she loves. Her social awkwardness, which only popped up in moments when she let her guard down, when she cared too much, was founded in that. Which might explain where the image of the party girl came from and why she disliked it so much. Back then she hadn't cared.

"Yes," Donna stepped next to her daughter, reaching for her arm, a sad smile on her lips. "But I love how you are. All the people who know you love how you are. Plus, opening a club doesn't equal reckless partying. It's a business decision. Responsibility. It's also a smart move. And, Felicity, I know that you know."

"I do."

"I know it's a lot. I've asked Gerry and he's willing to help you get stared, explain the basics of bookkeeping and stuff."

Felicity hesitated briefly, then her eyes found Oliver's. He saw the question in them and smiled, encouragingly, supportively. He was good with math, bookkeeping probably wouldn't be much of a challenge, and he'd gladly help her get this going. Oliver couldn't help but feel like Donna was right: Felicity needed to know she was more than the Arrow, just like Oliver needed to be more than her tech support. The look in Felicity's eyes gave him the impression that Felicity grasped a basic idea of where his thoughts had taken him. A silent 'thank you' reached him before she turned to her stepsister.

Sara nodded. "I was undercover in a bar for two months. My margaritas are legendary. I'm absolutely in."

After another second of hesitation, Felicity sighed. "Okay. Let's do it."

Donna smiled. "I told you it—" She stopped talking when she noticed Felicity's back straightening, her hand fell from her arm. "What?"

Oliver saw his girlfriend snap into alertness and silence her mother with a quick flick of her hand, her muscles tightening, her shoulders squaring, making it seem like she was ready to pounce—and she probably was. He didn't have the slightest idea what had brought that shift on, there was nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing but the soft breeze brushing in through the open gate—and in the huge, empty room sounds carried perfectly. But something was most definitely up, because Sara's posture was changing, too. The blonde woman standing next to him didn't seem battle ready, but she tensed nevertheless.

Taking two steps toward the gate, Felicity positioned herself in front of the others. Oliver knew she was shielding Donna and him, another example of her protectiveness.

"Who's there?" Felicity's demand echoed through the hall.

The answer didn't come in the form of words. Instead, a woman stepped into view, saying nothing, not making any sound. The sun behind her turned her into nothing but a silhouette. She wore a coat and a hat with a broad brim turning the silhouette very distinctive. (It reminded Oliver of Carmen Sandiego, which didn't exactly fit the situation so he buried that inappropriate connection.)

The tension within Sara increased, Oliver could feel her nerves practically rolling off her.

The woman walked toward them, her movements elegant and slow. With each step she took into the hall she revealed more of her appearance, like that she wore all black: black buttoned up coat, black high heeled boots, black hat. (Even if her long, wavy hair was also black she didn't look like Carmen Sandiego anymore.)

"Who are you? What do you want?" Felicity questioned her sharply.

The woman gave a small smile. "I've had better greetings."

Her casual way of not answering fit her entrance. She seemed relaxed, not rattled by Felicity's tone or stance at all. She spoke calmly, in a soft voice that Oliver called dignified in his own head—probably because of the English accent.

Felicity, on the other hand, wasn't calm at all. "This greeting's about to get worse if you don't answer my question. Who. Are. You?"

The woman ignored Felicity; her whole attention focused on Sara. "I am Nyssa," she said. "I am here because I never got a goodbye." The clicking of her high-heeled boots dissolved as she stopped, leaving space between herself and the group, and silence settled over them.

All eyes landed on Sara.

Sara shifted her weight. Felicity's pointedly raised eyebrows accompanied by a questioning "Sara?" snapped her into alertness. Her chin raised high, she stepped forward. "It's okay. Nyssa was my handler at A.R.G.U.S."

"I was," Nyssa confirmed. There was an edge in her voice. Her posture lost some of its ease. "I heard about the attack and wanted to make sure you were all right. I see that you are and I understand this greeting. But I've really had better." She gave a sharp nod and said, pointedly. "Goodbye." She turned in a sharp twist.

"Nyssa." It wasn't quite a shout, but there was definite urgency in Sara's voice. "Wait."

The other woman stopped. Slowly she faced the others again. Sara sighed and, with her exhale, the guarded tension left her. It felt like resignation to Oliver until he heard her soft tone. "Guys. This is Nyssa. We met while working for A.R.G.U.S. She was…" Sara hesitated and started anew, making it sound like a question, "She is? … my girlfriend."

"I am." The raven-haired woman confirmed, her brown eyes sparkling with approval.

Felicity finally gave up her fighting-stance, stunned. "Oh."

Oliver was surprised, too. This development was entirely unexpected—at least to him. Sara had never mentioned that she was in a relationship… or that she was gay… or bisexual or whatever. While Oliver never expected Sara to share such personal information with him, he knew that not knowing something like that about her best friend/stepsister was rattling Felicity—as if this day hadn't been emotionally shaky enough for her.

Of course, it was Donna Smoak-Lance who gathered herself first, before the situation could slip completely into unbearable awkwardness. With a genuine smile she crossed the distance to Nyssa and offered her hand. "It's very nice to meet you. I'm Donna Smoak-Lance. I'm married to Sara's father."

"Very nice to meet you, too, ma'am." The women shook hands. "Nyssa Raatko."

Donna gestured to her daughter. "This is Felicity, my daughter. And her boyfriend Oliver."

Oliver came back to his senses, leaving behind the position of observing bystander he had retreated to, and went to the woman for his own handshake.

Another moment of silence followed. This time Nyssa ended it, placing her attention on her girlfriend. "We should talk."

"Yes, we should." Sara glanced at Felicity. "We'll talk later, too."

"Yes." Felicity's voice was hard, but she ticked the corners of her mouth upward in Nyssa's direction. It wasn't a real smile, but it was a gesture.

With one last nod, Sara and her girlfriend turned and walked toward the gate, leaving the other three to watch them go. Only after the couple was most definitely out of earshot did Donna speak up. "Quentin won't like this. His daughter dating an A.R.G.U.S. agent won't exactly mix well with his plan to keep Sara away from that organization." She thought for a second and, when she continued, she sounded like the CEO Oliver had met multiple times in a glass office. "Next Wednesday our family dinner will be the Smoak-Lances plus their plus ones." She fixed Oliver. "I expect you to be there."

"Of course," he hurried to say. "Thank you for the invitation."

Donna nodded, pleased. "I'm full of brilliant ideas today."

Felicity huffed. Oliver couldn't help but agree.


Exhaustion weighed Felicity down. With heavy steps as she walked from her bike to the door leading to Oliver's apartment building.

She wasn't exhausted physically. The run-in with the Bratvas hadn't done much to tire her out. She had shut down one of their brothels, filled with girls and women kept there against their will, rendered the guards and johns unconscious or tied them up. The whole thing hadn't taken more than ten minutes, but she had called it a night afterward. As good as it had felt to hit something and finally feel confident in a situation, she had promised Oliver she wouldn't take on more than the low-security brothel tonight.

He had insisted on that when she had insisted that he accepted his friend's spontaneous invite for game night. Apparently, John Diggle had an evening off from war and Oliver deserved the same. Since Sara was off with Nyssa, the girlfriend Felicity had never even heard of, Oliver hadn't wanted her to take on too much—not after the day she'd had.

That was the reason for this emotional exhaustion. It made her thoughts slow, turned her limbs into lead. She wanted to just stop moving, to hide somewhere and be done with this day. Part of Felicity longed to drive to Smoak Mansion and hole up in her room, but she didn't want to send Oliver the wrong message.

Since her first night at Oliver's, she had stayed at his place pretty often. She liked the small apartment. It was warm and cozy and so very him. She saw him in those rooms, in the few framed pictures showing his family and friends (there were a lot of pictures of him and his sister, which told Felicity a lot of things she liked). She saw him in the books piled on shelves and stacked on his bedroom floor (books on coding and computer stuff, about technic and history, but also novels). She saw him in the little details like the magnets on his fridge with math jokes (she didn't get any of them), the Mulder and Scully Bobbleheads, and the trash can in the kitchen that looked like R2-D2. (Oliver had told her the name of the Star Wars robot and Felicity had memorized it, like she memorized everything.)

All of that, even the stuff completely foreign to Felicity, had started to feel like home. It was a little weird and probably too fast, but sleeping in Oliver's bed and arms felt right, like it had to be this way. Still, standing in front of his apartment building, ringing the doorbell (because she was a normal girlfriend and not some weirdo who came in through the window or anything), she knew that entering the homey apartment tonight would mean apologizing and having a difficult conversation.

Oliver was right. She couldn't tell him what to do, couldn't make his decisions for him. She had to tell him that. And she had to make him understand that hitting a wooden dummy without injuring himself didn't equal him going into the field. Because that wasn't happening. Ever.

The door buzzed. Annoyance flared within Felicity as she pressed the door open. He hadn't even used the speaker to make sure it was really her. He had to be more careful about stuff like that.

The elevator ride up didn't calm her either. She walked down the hall to his apartment with fast and heavy steps—until she rounded the corner. Seeing him leaning in his doorframe, greeting her with one of his gentle smiles she loved so much, the aggravation fled from her, slowing and softening her.

"Hey," he greeted.

"Hi," she answered and took the last steps toward him, already reaching for his face. She kissed him, needing the closeness, the connection after keeping her distance this afternoon after the thing with the training and with her mother stirring up her embarrassing past and with Sara's girlfriend showing up. It was a tender touch of their lips, lasting longer than a little greeting peck. When their lips parted, their eyes met and it took another long second until Oliver smiled and stepped backward. "I've made pasta. I figured you haven't eaten anything."

Passing the threshold (and the "Speak friend and enter" doormat), Felicity felt the worry slip off her. The complete Oliver-ness of the apartment surrounded her, as well as the delicious smell of dinner. "I haven't," she admitted and watched him close the door. "I didn't know you can cook… more complicated stuff than scrambled eggs, I mean."

"Growing up I had to take care of my sister while my mom worked."

Of course. A wave of affection surged through her and she just looked at him, not knowing what to say.

He tilted his head, studying her. "Did everything go as planned?"

"It did." She gestured to the dark TV screen. "Are you already done gaming?"

"Digg had to cancel because of some last minute mission—and Myron had to work late. So, I cooked instead."

"Their loss. My gain." She hesitated before continuing. "I have to apologize for—"

"No."

She blinked. "No?"

"No, you don't have to apologize. I know you had a… a rough day. And I know what you want to say."

"Oh?" she challenged crossing her arms over her chest. "You do? And what is that?"

"That you're sorry for bossing me around and that you understand that I make my own decisions, but that you have to keep me safe and you're not okay with me doing field work."

Her arms fell to her sides.

He smirked, lifting his eyebrow in silent triumph.

She cleared her throat. "Yes. I stand very firm on that."

"I know." He moved closer to her, bringing his hands to her shoulders. "Do you want to talk about what happened with your mother?"

"No."

"About Sara?"

"No." Unsure, she glanced up at him. "Is that okay?"

"Sure."

Another affectionate surge flooded through her and she got on her tiptoes to kiss him. She meant for it to be a little peck, but Oliver's arms wrapped around her, pulling her closer to him, deepening the kiss. She melted in his arms, folded into his body, bringing her arms around his shoulders, because—damn—that was a good kiss. His kisses were always amazing, but this one had an intensity she had never felt from him before. It was demanding in a way she hadn't experienced—and she was only just realizing how seriously she had missed out before. Her whole world reduced to him, to his tongue dancing around hers, his right arm wrapping round her, his right hand resting on her left shoulder blade, holding her close while the other slipped down the curve of her back. She felt him against her, for the first time truly aware how much taller he was, how his embrace encompassed her and how safe it felt to be here, in his arms. This was new, a whole new sensation that made her fist his shirt, warmth shooting through her, collecting in her stomach.

A sigh escaped her as his mouth closed around her lower lip, sucking gently. Lazily her eyes opened, finding his own darkened and set on her.

"What about your cooking?" Why was she asking that? Her brain must've gone to mush. She didn't care about eating. Her breathless tone proved that. His kiss had stolen her breath and that was fine. She preferred kissing him to breathing. It was the best way to go.

A smile played around his lips she couldn't quite place. He looked amused and reached for her again. "It tastes better reheated anyway."

He brought his mouth to hers as she mumbled, "What about the oven?"

"It's off," he answered, a playful twinkle in his eyes. That was also new. "Talking about off." He let go of her and reached for the collar of her coat. She was still wearing her coat, she realized, as if only then coming back to her senses. That thing needed to go. Quickly. She let go of him and shrugged the coat off her shoulders. He took it from her, threw it onto the couch without looking, and went in for another one of those breathtaking kisses.

Her hands slipped under his t-shirt, fingertips trailing over his skin from the front to the back while his own wandered down to cup her ass. Her fingers tightened instantly, her touch losing its lightness, growing more demanding. Suddenly, passion leaped within her, fueled by his obvious arousal. She moaned against his lips, pressing up at him, feeling him hard against her, and all of that was a wordless signal to both.

They let go of each other to rip their respective t-shirts over their heads. Letting the clothes drop to the ground, their eyes met. His were darkened by desire behind his glasses. God, he had such pretty eyes. Always. But they looked even better with that expression in them. His breathing was heavy, labored, his chest rising and falling, his lips were slightly opened. They just begged to be nibbled, sucked, kissed, anything. He reached for her just as she reached for him. They crashed together, seeking contact, skin connection.

He kissed down her jaw, to her throat, on to her neck. She leaned her head back and sighed, enjoying the sensation of his lips on her skin, of his teeth teasing her, of his stubble as he made his way down, his hands fumbling with the hook of her bra. She also felt the edge of his glasses against her skin. She liked his glasses, they suited him, made him Oliver, but right now they were in the way. She was probably also smudging them, which wasn't very sexy.

His chuckle brought her down from the highs her head had retreated to. "What?"

He straightened up again and reached for his glasses, taking them off and placing them on the kitchen counter. "There," he said, "out of the way."

She could feel her already pretty warm face heat even more—for different reasons this time. "I said that out loud?"

"You did. And, apparently, you prefer kissing me to breathing." He smiled, fondly. "Guess I'm doing something right."

"Yeah!" The word slipped past her lips with conviction. "Everything," she added. "You're doing everything right. Keep doing that."

He chuckled once more and slid the bra straps down her shoulders, letting it drop to the floor. He kissed her again, their naked chests connecting, and then he started moving, directing her backward, toward the adjoining bedroom. There was a sureness in his movements that was unfamiliar. The nerves had disappeared after their first time. His awkwardness had vanished, but he had still let her lead the way when it came to sex, set the pace.

This was him taking over.

She'd let him call the shots when it came to this forever, if these were the results. Whatever had finally given him the confidence deserved some kind of award.

As did his hands, actually. They moved with confidence and aim, stripping her of her clothes, undressing himself with ease, cupping her breasts, playing with her nipples, rolling them between her fingers, sliding up her leg and placing it over his shoulder as he kneeled in front of her. And then he brought his lips to her center and…. Oh, she had been wrong before. His mouth deserved the biggest award. And his tongue—with an honorable mention of his nose and….

A moan escaped from deep within her throat, mixing with a chuckle she felt more than heard coming from between her legs. Maybe she had said that out loud again. She didn't care. She was way past caring about anything other than Oliver. She reached for him, pulled him up, and crashed her lips to his shortly. Letting go of him, she looked up at him, finding lust that matched her own. This was nice and everything and she was actually close, but she didn't want to come like this. She wanted to feel him, be with him completely.

"Bed," she breathed, pointing at it—because they were still standing next to it, which didn't make any sense. With a smirk he got onto the mattress, reaching for the nightstand to get a condom. Joining him in bed, she took it from him and unwrapped it while he rested on his back, pumping himself in his hand. Settling down next to him, she gently took him in her hand before bending down, placing a kiss on the tip. He sighed; she felt him twitch.

"Felicity." His coated voice told her he was as impatient as she was, so scratch repaying the oral favors. She needed him. With skilled hands she slipped the condom into place and positioned herself above him, her legs bracketing him. His hands flew to her hips, guiding her as she sank down on him.

Having him inside her was still new, feeling him so perfectly nestled inside her. She sighed and started rocking against him. A moan escaped her, because—damn—this was amazing. His hands closed around her hips and he thrust up to match her movements and her pleasure surged. This time she was aware that she was talking; his name fell from her lips in urgent desire; his hands grabbed her hips in earnest.

"Felicity, look at me." His voice was hoarse, darker than usual, but it was a clear order. Her eyes snapped open—she hadn't realized how tightly she had squeezed them shut. Seeing the craving in his, the raw lust made her own desire flare. Her movements turned more forceful, quicker. "God," he breathed and this time she wasn't sure if he was aware he was actually forming words, "you're gorgeous."

They moved in sync, their skin rubbing together perfectly. Pleasure grew inside her, turning her movements more frantic, until, suddenly, one hard thrust of him caused the pleasure to spike. Bliss spilled through her, her eyes fluttered shut, her breath hitched in her throat and she was reduced to a bundle of pulsing nerves as he continued to pump himself into her, heightening the sensation. Taking a deep breath, she came back to the moment and found the ability to move again. She met his thrusts, opening her eyes. He was staring up at her, an engrossed smile playing around his lips. His eyes met hers for a second before his gaze slipped deeper to where they were connected, where he was moving in and out.

With a guttural groan he reached for her, his hand resting on her neck pulled her down to him, changing the angle. She brought her lips to his neck, kissing his skin while his hands again moved to her hips to hold her as he thrust into her, quicker, more desperately.

Feeling him break within her was perfect. It made her shudder against him, loving the sensation of his muscles flexing, of him fluttering inside her, feeling his heavy breathing brush her ear and his heavy heartbeat underneath her lips on his neck. He sucked air into his lungs and she moved so that she rested on his chest, looking into his face, soft and content with satisfaction. His left arm circled around her lower back. His right hand came to her face to gently brush her wild hair back. She couldn't help but smile at him. Thank God she had never honestly contemplated hiding at the mansion. There couldn't be a better place than in his arms.