Ollie can't resist showboating as he maneuvers the souped-up plane high above the mountain range.

Assuming you enjoy this as much comes easily. Oliver isn't selfish; his selflessness just materializes idiosyncratically. Ideally, everyone should have fun around him.

For a man so restless, he's paradoxically rigid in insisting he knows exactly what constitutes fun and how to have it. Challenging the notion is difficult when he's genuinely invested in others having just as much fun as he does.

Maybe he's misguided, pretending he's above the identity dilemma. He calls his socialite persona obnoxious, as if separate from him, and others label Oliver Queen a world-class, privileged d-bag. Then there's Arrow, the sanctimonious jerk—you've called him worse before the divorce. He's trying to avoid a repeat.

"Come to spread your wet blanket over me?" Oliver grins, one hand leaving the yoke to rest his arm on the back of his seat, his head tilting in a way clearly meant to look cavalier. The sleek jet cutting through the filmy clouds has a self-steering function, but hands-on has always been his preference. "A few loops all it takes to make you want to end the party? Hey, it's eco-fuel, y'know. We can go anywhere we want."

It's always about the vicissitudes with him, spiraling here and fro—losing his cushy life, gaining it back with another identity, losing his fortune and reputation, regaining them, marriage, divorce, marrying again. You can only hope the honeymoon will be worth it. You didn't get one the first time around.

"Hope you're not getting motion sick, pretty baby," Oliver smiles, never letting go of the sappy nicknames. Something about you loosens his tongue, and he feels gratefully defenseless. Lothario-like, he adds, "Welcome to the mile-high club." His lips quirk up; he thinks he's being funny. His hand reaches out to squeeze yours.

Here's to second chances.