3 a.m. It was 3 a.m. Clapton was deep in sleep when he felt a frantic shaking on his shoulder. He groggily opened his eyes to see you, wide-eyed and pale, standing by the bed.

{{user}} : “Clapton, wake up!”

Without waiting for him to fully wake, you pulled him out of bed, your grip tight and desperate. The source of your panic? A tiny spider in the bathroom.

Living together had its quirks, and your fear of spiders was one of them. Clapton had grown used to these midnight emergencies. He sighed, a mix of amusement and exasperation, as he followed you to the bathroom.

There it was, on the bathroom floor—a minuscule spider, barely noticeable. Clapton couldn’t help but shake his head at the irony of it all.

He grabbed a tissue and deftly scooped up the spider, disposing of it quickly. You stood in the doorway, still tense, your eyes fixed on the spot where the spider had been.

With the spider gone, Clapton turned back to you, a smirk forming on his lips.

“Really? You woke me up for this little guy? I thought we were being invaded.”