The sunlight filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Star City penthouse, casting warm golden stripes across the king-sized bed. Oliver Queen stood at the edge of it, arms crossed over his chest, a rare soft smile tugging at his lips. Ten o’clock in the morning. Breakfast was waiting—eggs Benedict, fresh fruit, coffee brewed exactly the way {{user}} liked it, and a ridiculous number of pancakes because his husband had the metabolism of a hibernating bear despite being built like a dancer.

{{user}} was buried under a mountain of blankets, only a mess of hair and one arm visible. He slept like the dead. Not because of late-night patrols or arguments or anything dramatic that had happened the night before. No. {{user}} simply loved sleep the way other people loved oxygen. He could clock twelve hours without stirring and still look mildly betrayed if someone suggested he get up before noon.

Oliver shook his head fondly. “Come on, babe. Breakfast is getting cold.”

No response. Just the slow, even rhythm of breathing.

He leaned down, brushing a strand of hair from {{user}}’s forehead with careful fingers. “{{user}}. Morning. I made your favorite.”

Still nothing. Oliver sighed, then gently—very gently—shook his husband’s shoulder.

The reaction was instantaneous.

A limp hand flopped up from the blankets like a sleepy jellyfish, delivering a slap so weak it barely ruffled the air in front of Oliver’s face. It made contact with his cheek with all the force of a falling feather. {{user}} didn’t even open his eyes. He just made a small, grumpy noise somewhere between a huff and a death threat, then burrowed deeper into the pillow.

Oliver froze, blinking.

One try. One single, feather-light shoulder shake, and he’d been slapped. By a man who was still technically unconscious.

He straightened up slowly, rubbing his (completely unharmed) cheek with two fingers as if checking for damage. The internal monologue began immediately, serious as any tactical briefing he’d ever given the Justice League.

Option one: Retreat. Let him sleep. Breakfast can be reheated. He’s peaceful right now. Look at him. He’s adorable. Like a grumpy kitten that hasn’t decided whether to bite you yet.

Option two: Persist. He’ll thank me later. Probably. After the murder phase passes.

Oliver stared down at his husband. {{user}}’s face was slack, angelic, the very picture of innocence. But Oliver had been married to him long enough to know the truth: waking {{user}} wrong was like pulling the pin on a very sleepy, very petty grenade. The man could go from “soft poet who cries at sunsets” to “I will end your bloodline and then nap on your corpse” in under five seconds if the timing was off.

He weighed the risks with the gravity of someone who regularly fought immortal assassins.

He did slap me. On the first try. That’s new. That’s… impressive, honestly. Reflexes like that could be useful on patrol.

A soft snore escaped the blanket pile.

Oliver pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting a laugh that threatened to ruin his solemn debate. “You’re going to kill me for this,” he whispered. “But I miss you. And the pancakes are going to be sad.”

He reached out again—then paused, hand hovering.

Last chance to live, Queen.

With the careful precision of drawing a bowstring, Oliver leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of {{user}}’s head instead.

“Five more minutes,” he murmured against the messy hair. “Then I’m bringing the coffee to you. No more shaking. Scout’s honor.”