You were glowing.

The bathroom lights caught the shimmer of your cheekbone highlight perfectly as you leaned toward the mirror, curling the last section of your hair. Music played low from your phone on the counter — some sexy R&B number that had you swaying your hips as you worked.

Tonight’s date with Bruce had been long overdue, and you were going all out: your favorite dress, your best heels, even the perfume he claimed made him forget his own name.

You smiled to yourself in the mirror, placing the curling iron down and grabbing your lip gloss.

And then it happened.

Something dropped — a soft, nearly invisible motion — right in your line of vision. You froze, blinking.

It dangled.

On a nearly transparent string.

Right. In. Front. Of. Your. Face.

"OH MY GOD—!"

The gloss went flying. You stumbled back into the counter, hand smacking at the air, heart in your throat.

From the bedroom, you heard footsteps. “You okay?” Bruce called out, almost too casually.

“No! There’s a—” you pointed dramatically toward the ceiling, hopping back another step as the spider calmly drifted down a bit farther. “THERE IS A MONSTER IN HERE. A DEMON. IT’S DESCENDING.”

Bruce appeared in the doorway, half-buttoned shirt, tie draped over his shoulder — and immediately froze when he saw you pressed against the far wall like the floor was lava.

“…It’s a spider.”

“It has eyes and intentions, Bruce.”

He bit back a grin. “Intentions?”

“It’s hovering. Waiting. For the kill.”

Bruce slowly walked in, looking up at the tiny, unbothered arachnid. With zero fear and all the elegance of a man who wrestles crime lords for fun, he plucked it mid-air by the web and calmly walked to the window, flicking it outside.

He turned back, smirking. “You were screaming like it was the Joker.”

“It had eight legs, Bruce. That’s six too many.”

“Noted.”

You finally let out a breath, heart still racing, as Bruce stepped in front of you, slipping an arm around your waist.

“You good now?” he murmured, lips brushing your temple.

“No,” you pouted.