The sound of the shower running greets Oliver as he pads barefoot across the cold tiles of his bathroom floor.

"Hey," he calls, and he can't see her face yet but he doesn't need to; he can hear the smile in Laurel's voice as she replies.

"Hey, Ollie. Wanna join me?"

Immediately Oliver's hoodie is up and over his head, taking his t-shirt with it, but he only manages to get his pants half off before the shower door opens and he feels a wet hand tug on his arm and pull him in with her.

All at once he's under the steady stream of water with Laurel. She greets him with a kiss, burying her tongue in his mouth and pressing herself against him, so he can feel the soap on her breasts against his chest.

"Hi," she says breathlessly.

"Good morning," he replies softly. His pants are wet now, so he quickly untangles them from his knees and pulls them off, holding her shoulder for support. Laurel just watches him, looking amused.

'How was your run?"

"Good," Ollie says, and he kisses her again. It's slower this time, more languid, because they have all the time in the world and in less than forty-eight hours the beautiful woman in his arms is going to be his wife. "Sweaty."

Laurel chuckles, wiping the mixture of sweat and water off his forehead with her finger. "No kidding."

"Sorry."

"I told you," she says, "I like it."

"Mm?"

"Yeah. It's kinda hot."

"Oh yeah?"

"Mm hmm. My husband, the hottie."

"Husband". It has a nice ring to it, Oliver has to admit. It sounds a bit strange coming out of Laurel's mouth, for some reason, but he figures he'll get over the novelty of It eventually.

"My wife," he murmurs back, "the prettiest girl in the whole damn world."

Then he kisses her, and he feels like he's kissing her almost for the first time, or the first time in a long time. His hand goes up to cup her breast, thumb ghosting her nipple (which hardens at his touch), making her groan softly.

She kisses him back, then, pushing him against the cold shower wall. Oliver shivers, but not because of the cold; her hand on his chest makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and in that moment he marvels over the effect she has on him, even now.

Her hand moves down, knuckles brushing briefly against his nipple and then her palm dances down to his abdomen and then his navel. He's hard for her, now; that much he can feel, and when she arches into him tantalisingly he can't help but groan.

"Laurel," he whispers. Laurel looks up, meets his eyes, and when she does his eyes light up and he says, "I love you."

"I love you too."

And then her hand slips inside his boxers, and Oliver gasps when she has a good hold of him. Then, tortuously, she moves her hand away, a smirk on her face, and Oliver moans in protest. Quickly he pulls down his underwear and throws it aside, and he catches Laurel's hand in his and guides it back to where it was before.

Really, though, it doesn't take much for him to come; her grip on him tightens, and her hand moves faster, up and down, and in what feels like no time he comes all over her hand, gasping her name, kissing her clumsily as the water sluices over them both, washing away the evidence of his enjoyment.

"Love you," he says again, and there's something satisfying about the way she is breathless from their kiss. He kisses her again, more gently this time, cupping her face with both his hands. Then he's kneeling on the shower floor, carefully prying her legs ever so slightly apart so he can run his tongue along the inside of her left thigh.

He can smell her arousal from where he is, and his tongue darts out, tasting her. Oliver closes his eyes, revelling in the sharp sweetness that is just so Laurel, and again he feels almost like he's tasting her for the first time; it takes him a second to get used to her, anyway, but when he does he licks away the hot sweet wetness trickling down her thigh and sighs gently against her skin.

"God, Ollieā€¦"

"Laurel," he whispers back reverently, and he does it again, lets his tongue dart out just at her entrance. Then he buries his face between her legs, arms going up and hooking around her thighs, and it comes back to him, now, what she likes, the spot where she's most sensitive - he's remembering, even if for some reason he has to reach deep into his memories to do it.

She rocks her hips against his mouth, arching into him, groaning, but Oliver doesn't stop what he's doing with his mouth, with his tongue, not until he can feel her hand scrabbling for his and their fingers lock and her grip tightens and Laurel's gasping his name and finally, finally, her grip slackens and if it wasn't for Oliver supporting her she would have slid down the shower wall.

"Did I mention you're ridiculously good at that?" Laurel says, still panting.

Oliver kisses her and smiles. "Only every time I've gone down on you, ever."

"And I bet you never get tired of hearing it," Laurel teases.

"Not a chance," Oliver tells her with a grin. Then, suddenly, he lifts Laurel easily off her feet and she laughs, right into his mouth as she kisses him, wet legs wrapping around his waist. He's hard again as she presses up against him, letting him push her right up against the shower wall, and she reaches down, touches him, makes him groan her name once more. She opens her eyes just as he does, and when at last he fills her to the hilt it's hard to tell where he ends or she begins.

Oliver's patient, letting her adjust to him and wriggle her hips against him until she's comfortable, then they move together and she feels so perfect when he's inside her, teh way her walls close around him.

He comes first, like he usually does (or he remembers that he usually does), and she's patient too, waits expectantly for Oliver to straighten and right himself before he dips his fingers beneath her navel and softly, ever so softly brushes his fingers against her centre. She jolts at his touch and is sensitive, so sensitive, and Oliver knows it, too, and he goes slowly, inching ever so lightly and gently inside her until his forefinger hits her clitoris and then she cries out, face buried into his bare chest, breathless under his touch.

When she comes, her breaths come out as pants, and her nails dig into his chest, her hand right above his heart. She looks up at him with those beautiful eyes of hers and Oliver automatically smiles.

"Good?"

"The best," she tells him. He smiles even wider, and he must do so for a long time because she eventually raises her eyebrows and says, "What?"

"Nothing. Just. Sometimes I can't believe this is my life. That you're my life."

"I love you too."

He sighs. "What would I do without you?"

"Crash and burn," Laurel teases. But at her words something hits him, in his gut, and it must show on his face because Laurel quickly adds, "Which is why you'll never have to find out."

"You promise?" Oliver says softly.

"Cross my heart," says Laurel, and she kisses him playfully on the nose. "Now, I still need to shampoo my hair."

"May I?"

Laurel laughs, bending down and picking up the shampoo bottle, which she hands to him. "You may."

And any worries Oliver still had disappear as he loses himself in bubbles, steam and Laurel.