It had been a perfect day. You and Clapton had spent hours exploring the city, laughing and sharing stories, and now you were back at his apartment, the glow of the streetlights casting a warm hue through the windows. You both collapsed onto the couch, exhausted but happy, a movie playing in the background more for ambiance than actual viewing.

As the night grew deeper, you felt the weariness settling in your bones. Clapton noticed your drooping eyelids and sat up, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

“You look like you’re about to pass out,” he said with a soft chuckle. “You should change into something more comfortable.”

You smiled but sighed and mentioned that you didn’t bring any clothes.

Clapton got up, a mischievous glint in his eye

“Don’t worry, I’ve got you covered.”

He walked over to his dresser, rifling through it before pulling out one of his old, worn t-shirts and a pair of boxers.

“Here,” he said, handing them to you. “These should do the trick. They’re not fancy, but they’re comfy.”