Felicity smells it halfway down the hall from her apartment. She'd abandoned her heels at some point in the stairwell and the swung along with the bag on her shoulder as she got closer to the paint chipped apartment door. She didn't even bother trying to hide the smile overtaking her features as she considered what she'd find inside. The closer she got, the more overwhelming the smell became and she'd be surprised if she didn't get a bunch of neighbor complaints by the end of the night.

It was an interesting scent. On one hand it smelled so amazing her stomach rumbled at the thought of her skipped lunch, but on the other hand it had the distinct scent of something burnt. She couldn't help the laugh that bubbled up inside her at that.

Oliver Queen could do just about everything – except cook.

Granted, he was definitely trying. This wasn't the first time she'd gotten home to find him cooking her dinner. Some nights in ended in ordering pizza or Chinese and others it was surprisingly delicious. (Well, "delicious" may be a bit much but, hey, she does love the guy.)

She unlocks the door and discards her things by the door, following the scent (and smoke) to the kitchen. A radio somewhere in the corner of the room plays a low, slow tune as he comes into view. The sight of him in her kitchen, making the space look surprisingly small compared to him, is becoming familiar but she still stalls at the entryway to take it in.

The first thing she hears is sizzling and a curse. He's wearing the same suit he'd worn to work that morning but he's lost his jacket and shoes. His sleeves are rolled up and he looks like any normal guy making dinner for his girlfriend. The thought makes her shake her head and she sidles up behind him, slipping her arms around his waist.

His hands drift down to cover hers against his abdomen and she feels the tenseness in his back dissolve a little (it's never fully gone, she's learned, but she likes that he unwinds around her).

"How was work?" He asks, one of his hands leaving hers to continue working on whatever it is he's cooking. She groans and presses her face into his back. Not long after they'd started dating, she'd moved back down to IT. She created an encrypted system for them to be in contact about their "late night adventures" (well, okay, the ones that involved a bow and arrow) without either of them having to take an elevator ride or be overheard. The result was that Oliver usually made it out of work before her. Tonight, she'd been caught up in a major malfunctioning program in the legal database.

"I've never had so many lawyers yelling at me at once," she sighed, shaking her head, her nose rubbing against his spine. "You?" She felt him shrug his shoulders. Being CEO was still not something he particularly wanted to do, she knew, but it was one of those things he felt obliged to do. Sometimes she considered the amount of things he placed blame on himself for, even though no one else blamed him, and wished he could see the parts of himself she did.

"'S fine," he mumbled. "I snuck out early to get this started anyway."

"Ah, right," she nodded, pulling away from him slightly to lean over and peak past him to the stove top. "What's the verdict then, do you think? Should I get the menus out?" She feels the laugh rumble through him before she hears it and it makes her grin.

"Oh, ye of little faith." She laughs and pulls away completely, spotting the mail on the counter and moving towards it.

"Oh, Oliver," she sighs, "faith has nothing to do with it. It's purely scientific. Past experiments show that there is a 50/50 chance of us having to order in whenever you cook." He turns to glare at her and she suppresses a laugh at the streak of white sauce across his cheek.

"You're kind of a nerd," he comments dryly and she rolls her eyes, reaching over and wiping the sauce off of his face.

"And you're kind of a dope," she counters, wiping the sauce on a paper towel. "What are you trying to make, anyway?" She eyes the pan wearily and takes a step towards it but he blocks her, stepping between her and the stove. She rolls her eyes and raises her hands in defense.

"Shrimp Fettuccine Alfredo," he tells her and she raises an eyebrow.

"You cooked shrimp?"

"I told you I left work early."

"Do you even know how to cook shrimp?" Oliver sighs in frustration.

"Yes, Felicity, I know how to cook shrimp." She raises her hands again and gives him a smile.

"Alright, alright. I'm just saying, if I have to call off work tomorrow because you fed me funky shrimp, you're never going to hear the end of it," she teases. He smirks at her, stirring the noodles in their pot.

"We could call off work tomorrow anyway, you know, do something more.. fun." He punctuates it with a crude eyebrow raise and Felicity smirks and shakes her head.

"Down, boy," she chuckles, "let's see how the shrimp turns out first." He shrugs like that's a fair decision and returns his attention to the food.

"What did I smell burning?" Oliver pouts and motions to the garbage can.

"The garlic bread." Sure enough, the top layer in the trash bag is cuts of a blackened baguette. She shakes her head and loops her arms around his torso again, pressing against his back.

"Garlic bread is overrated anyway."