3 a.m. Clapton stirred in his sleep, sensing something was off. The apartment was quiet, almost too quiet, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. He rubbed his eyes and sat up, noticing that you weren’t beside him in bed.

He listened carefully and then heard it—a faint, stifled sob. His heart sank as he realized it was coming from the bathroom. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and made his way down the hall, the soft sounds of your distress guiding him.

Pushing the bathroom door open, he found you sitting on the cold tile floor, tears streaming down your face, your body wracked with silent sobs. You hadn’t woken him, trying to keep your anguish to yourself.

Clapton’s heart ached at the sight. Without a word, he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into a tight hug. You melted into his embrace, burying your face in his chest as fresh tears began to flow. Clapton held you close, his hand moving in soothing patterns on your back.

“Hey…shhh…It’s alright. What happened?” His voice was soft, filled with concern and a hint of vulnerability.