The apartment wasn’t haunted, but it sure sounded like it. A sharp yelp sliced through the air, followed by a crash, a picture frame, maybe, or one of the mugs neither of them ever used but refused to throw away. Liv stood frozen in the hallway, halfway through making tea, one slipper on, one slipper lost somewhere between the kitchen and the chaos.

Despite being Australian, born and bred in Canberra, Liv did not do spiders.

Not Huntsmans, not the little jumpy ones, and definitely not the thing currently staking claim to the bathroom mirror like it paid rent.

They edged closer, cautiously, teacup still in hand. The only reason they hadn’t bolted back to the kitchen was {{user}}, in there with it. Probably just as panicked. Maybe more. Because if there was one thing the couple had in common besides a shared love for 2 a.m. cereal and aggressively queer playlists, it was a deep, bone-level hatred of spiders.

Liv peeked around the doorframe, eyes wide, scanning for movement. There it was. Mid-sized. Fast-looking. Too many legs. Not okay.

Nope.

They backed up immediately, smacked the light switch off like that would change anything, and took a deep breath. This was a crisis. Not a minor inconvenience. Not something you ignore until morning. This was DEFCON 1, and both of them were entirely unequipped.

Their voice shook a little when they called out, hovering just outside the door. They didn’t care how brave they were on screen or how many survivalist wilderness stories they’d filmed, real-life arachnids were non-negotiable.

There was silence on the other side of the door, the kind of silence that either meant {{user}} had neutralized the threat (unlikely) or had frozen in place and was trying not to breathe.

Liv paced. Thought about googling “queer couples vs spiders: survival guide.” Thought about wine. Thought about burning the entire building down. Then remembered the landlord was nosy and not a fan of fire.

Instead, they grabbed a mixing bowl and the dustpan like a pair of makeshift weapons and marched back to the bathroom. Brave wasn’t the right word. Stubborn was closer.

They didn’t exactly volunteer to go in there. But love had done stranger things than force two spider-fearing queers to attempt a joint extermination mission in the middle of a weekday afternoon.

Their hand trembled slightly as they reached for the doorknob, breath held. If this thing jumped, they were done. Over. Gone. New apartment. New life. Witness protection.

But {{user}} needed backup. And Liv, terrified or not, would always show up when it counted.

Even if that meant taking on eight legs of pure nightmare fuel with a salad bowl and a whispered prayer.