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Felicity doesn’t like it when Oliver treats her like she’s so easily breakable. Like she’s glass and he’s a sledgehammer. They’ve been doing this Arrow thing for five years now. She’s learned a lot. She can take care of herself out there. She has a scar to prove it.
So no, when he’s fussing over her cut that’s barely a cut or he bounces around a subject because he’s afraid he’ll hurt her feelings, she’s not having any of it. She doesn’t want special treatment. Anger boils up inside that packs a more powerful punch than getting her first bullet wound, and she tells him, “Don’t baby me.”
But sometimes, when they’re alone and making love, his hands will glide so lightly over her skin, eliciting goosebumps, like tiny little hands reaching up for more of him. He’ll ghost his lips over her body and breathe heavily against her as he moves above her, like she’s his prayer. He’s reverent and attentive to her every move. This is different. She feels so potent and cherished, filled with fervor and love.