A month into their road trip Oliver and Felicity crash a wedding. It's Felicity's idea; Oliver has to be convinced. Lucky for Felicity, convincing Oliver Queen to do things he wouldn't normally do is kind of her thing.

They're walking along a wide, flat beach just outside Coast City when they spot the large white tent shimmering in the distance. As they walk closer, Felicity catches sight of the bride surrounded by flocks of guests in their summer finery.

"Oliver," Felicity says, tugging on his hand and staring longingly into the tent. "What if we—"

Oliver shakes his head. "No way. I don't know if you remember but the last wedding I attended didn't go end very well. Plus, it's not like we were invited."

"Oh come on." Felicity steps closer, sliding her hands around his waist beneath his shirt. The skin to skin contact makes him shudder. She kisses the underside of his stubbly jaw and murmurs, "We just saved the Starling City from a bio weapon attack. I think we're entitled to be a little bad don't you think? Plus—" She halts her ministration to peer over his shoulder at the tent. Oliver swallows a groan at the loss of contact. "—I think I see an open bar."

He capitulates rather easily after that.

They're accosted by a bridesmaid almost as soon as they walk into the tent. She seems to appear from nowhere, wearing a shimmering yellow dress so bright it makes Oliver's eyes water.

"Hello!" The bridesmaid pumps Felicity's hand up and down with such enthusiasm Felicity fears she might lose a few fingers. "I'm Patricia, Evelyn's sister." Her smile is somehow even more dazzling than her dress. Felicity has to look away. "I don't think we've met before?"

Felicity introduces them as Barry Allen and Iris West, orthopedists from Coast City and friends of the groom from college.

"Oh, were you in Pi Kapp with Darren?" Patricia asks, eyes flicking over Oliver's tall frame. "You do have the fraternity look if you don't mind my saying."

Felicity beams. "He does, doesn't he."

Oliver scowls.

"Why orthopedists?" Oliver murmurs as Patricia finally flits away, probably to excise someone else's wrist from its socket. "We could've had any careers in the world and you choose feet?"

"I panicked!" Felicity pouts. "Jeez, if I knew you were gonna to be so picky about our fictional careers I wouldn't have let you convince me to come."

"Felicity this was your idea!"

She waves this away. "Details."

As the hot, hazy day fades into a hot, hazy evening, Oliver and Felicity find themselves accosted by the groom's mother who insists she remembers "Barry" from his university days.

"You're the boy who convinced my poor Darren to kidnap the bust of Alexander Hamilton from the history building his senior year, aren't you?" The older woman stares at Oliver accusatorily over the top of what seems to be her third of fourth martini.

"Yes, it was definitely you," she decides, hiccupping and listing slightly to the left as she jabs Oliver in the chest with a long, well-manicured fingernail. "I never forget a face, young man. My Darren almost didn't graduate because of you and that damn fraternity."

Oliver shakes his head helplessly and glances at Felicity, who covers her mouth with her hand to hide her laughter.

Felicity catches the bouquet. She's not even trying to. The meal has just been served and she's busy picking the bacon off of her chicken when the bouquet literally falls right into her lap— snow-white baby's breath tucked into a bundle of fresh pink peonies.

Oliver and Felicity avoid each other's gaze as women swarm around "Iris" and jokingly congratulate her on her upcoming nuptials. It's the second bouquet Felicity has caught this year and although neither she nor Oliver is particularly superstitious, they both find themselves wondering if there's not something to that old wives' tale after all.

The air cools as the sun sinks below the horizon and the sky fades from pink and orange to dusky purple to a deep velvet blue sprinkled with stars.

Oliver and Felicity sit on bow wrapped chairs, a plate of half-eaten desserts on the table in front of them. Felicity's head feels impossibly light and heavy all at the same time, the result of a perfect storm of alcohol and sun exposure.

She leans into Oliver's shoulder. "I'm so full," she mumbles into his shirt sleeve. "I don't think I'll ever eat again."

"Oh?" The smile is perceptible in Oliver's voice. "Does that mean you're not interested in the mini cheesecakes they just put out?"

"Cheesecakes?" Felicity bolts upright, then groans as her head throbs painfully. When the throbbing subsides she glances toward the dessert buffet. Her face falls. "There's no cheesecake, you jerk."

A warm, rumbling sound reverberates from Oliver's chest—more of a happy hum than full blown laughter. "That's what you get for not saving me from the Darren's mom."

"Hey," Felicity says, picking forlornly at the half eaten éclair on the plate in front of her, "you can't deny you were a trouble making frat boy in college. I've seen the videos."

Oliver thinks back to the time he and some of his fraternity brothers broke into the dean's house while he was on vacation and threw a kegger in the backyard. Still, it's not like Felicity never broke the rules in college.

"At least I didn't write a super virus that nearly destroyed Starling City," he says.

Felicity's mouth drops open.

Oliver casually helps himself to the last bite of éclair.

As the night wears on the band switches over to languid 50s love songs. As they start in on Etta James' At Last, Oliver stands and holds out his hand. "Dance with me?"

Felicity blinks up at him through sleep heavy eyes. "Did you just ask me to dance? Is that what just happened?" She sticks out her arm. "Pinch me I need to know if I'm dreaming."

Oliver glowers down at her. "You have five seconds to accept or I'm sitting back down."

"Oh, don't be mean, you boob!" She stumbles to her feet. "There's no way I'm passing this up."

Oliver leads her onto the dance floor and pulls her close. Felicity yawns and buries her face in his chest, her hands twisting loosely into the front of his shirt. A cool breeze lifts strands of her hair and dances them around her head like a golden halo tickling Oliver's face.

"S' nice," she mumbles into his chest. She can hear the slow, steady beating of his heart against her ear. He presses a kiss to the top of her head.

And here we are in heaven / for you are mine / at last

Oliver decides maybe this dancing thing isn't so bad after all.

They're some of the last guests to leave. The bride has tears in her eyes as she makes them promise it won't be so long before the next time she seems them.

The groom, under the impression that Barry and Iris are friends of his new wife's, shakes Oliver's hand and claps him on the back. "You gonna put a ring on that?" he asks Oliver, tilting his head toward the short blonde chatting with his wife.

Oliver just smiles.

Felicity is dancing precariously close to unconsciousness when they finally get back to the cottage they've rented for the week so Oliver hoists her into his arms and carries her over the threshold. Moonlight illuminates his path as he makes his way to their bed and lays her down atop the covers, which are still rumpled from that morning's activities.

After shucking his clothes, Oliver slides onto the bed beside her. Felicity has just enough consciousness left to nuzzle into him, intertwining her legs with his and running her hand along his side.

"You know, Queen," she mumbles, clinging to sentience because she's determined to get the words out, "you're alright."

And because of her, he is.