On Tuesday afternoons in the spring, Oliver and Felicity meet for lunch in Starling Park. She packs a picnic basket full of his favorite food, and he stakes out a spot under the old overgrown oak tree that she loves so much. She told him once that she thought the long, spindly branches looked like fingers reaching up into the sky, desperate to touch the sun.

There was a time when Oliver was familiar with that feeling.

Today, he's propped up against the trunk of that tree, and Felicity's sitting between his legs, resting the back of her head on his shoulder. The fingers of their right hands are laced together; Felicity's left hand holds a container of chicken salad, and Oliver's holds a fork. He stabs a piece of celery with the tines and offers it to her. He saves the grapes for himself because he knows she doesn't like them; she puts them in there because she knows that he does.

"What do you think about Italy?" he asks.

"As far as boot-shaped countries go, or-"

"As far as vacation destinations go," he explains. "Just you and me."

He can tell he's taken her by surprise; she's mentioned wanting to photograph the Spanish Steps in Rome, but she probably thought he wasn't paying attention. It surprises her still, the things he remembers. When it comes to her, he remembers everything.

"What about our…nighttime activities?"

Oliver grins and leans forward, gently catches her earlobe between his teeth the way she likes. "I hoped we could continue with those," he whispers.

She laughs, squeezes his hand. "You know what I mean."

He does, always.

"Roy and Thea can handle things for a couple of weeks." It still feels strange sometimes, including his sister as a part of their team. He doesn't want this for her, but it's not his decision to make. Besides, working with him seems to make her happy and she deserves that, at least.

"Did you have anything in particular in mind?" Felicity asks.

There's a photographer from National Geographic in Venice who's going to show her around the city and give her some tips. There's a villa in the Tuscan countryside overlooking a vineyard that's waiting for them to arrive. And there's a two-karat art deco engagement ring hidden in Oliver's suitcase that he hopes will find a home on her finger. Because Felicity? She's forever.

"No," he replies, kissing her neck, breathing in the soapy clean smell of her hair. "Nothing in particular. I just want to spend some time with you."

"Okay."

"Okay?" He asks, surprised. He was kind of thinking this whole trip thing was going to be a much tougher sell.

"Yes, okay. I want to spend some time with you, too." She turns and offers him that smile of hers that makes him forget his own name. The one that makes hope well up and slowly fill the cracks between the broken pieces inside of him.

"When are we going?"

Oliver shrugs, casually says, "Friday."

She sets down the container she was holding and laughs. "Friday?"

"If it's an issue with your boss, I can talk her into letting you have some time off." He leans in close, whispers, "She thinks I'm sexy."

Felicity holds out her hand, her thumb and index finger a centimeter or two apart. "Just a little."

Oliver laughs and pulls her in for a kiss. It starts out slow and builds on itself, until they're melting into one another and he can't tell where he ends and she begins. Kissing her is as easy as breathing, and he knows he's going to be kissing her for the rest of his days. He's not even worried about how few or how many he has left.

In the end he'll have no regrets, because his life was pretty perfect for a while.