The bag hurts every time she punches it, but Laurel just…can’t…stop.
She can’t believe his fucking nerve! No, that’s a lie, she totally can - probably should’ve seen it coming, too.
The bag’s not meant to be hung in a bedroom, so it swings wildly, irritating her further.
She had risked herself for the city. That’s what they all did, wasn’t it?
So, what? Maybe she was chasing the high - maybe that’s why she’s bouncing around on bare pedicured feet swinging at a punching bag right now, why Oliver couldn’t help but run headfirst into danger, why Sara had, why Felicity and Thea and Diggle, why any of them, kept at this. Maybe it was for justice, maybe it was for the rush, probably both - but Oliver sure as Hell couldn’t hold it against her like he was above her.
At least it felt...better to accept that she didn’t have to pretend he’d done no wrong to forgive him - to forgive herself.
Felicity had been big on that recently, self-forgiveness.
One of these days, she’ll actually charge for being my freaking therapist…
The bag detaches from the rafter and crashes to the floor; Laurel doesn’t bother picking it up.
As if on cue, the doorbell rings. Laurel tosses her gloves onto her bed, makes a haphazard ponytail, and heads to the door.
Something else she probably should’ve expected. Felicity…holding a take-out bag.
“You never confirmed whether you’d actually eaten dinner. I figured, better safe than sorry.”