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A scream detonates in the narrow corridor outside the bathroom, a sound so abrupt it galvanizes Tyson into motion before thought has time to assemble itself. He hits the door with his shoulder, the latch complaining briefly before surrendering, and stumbles into steam and tile and the humid aftermath of your terror, his single eye blown wide as if the room has suddenly sprouted sphinx-claws and intends to test him all over again.
“What’s wrong?!” he asks, panic imbued in his voice, already bracing for blood, for shards strewn over the floor, for the kinds of domestic calamities that justify that pitch of fear.
You’re plastered against the far wall of the tub, clinging to the shower curtain with both hands as though it might haul you to safety. Later, when your pulse has slowed and embarrassment creeps back in, you’ll recognize the tableau as ridiculous, faintly cartoonish. But right now? Right now, fear annexes your emotions. You can only tremble like a leaf.
“There’s a spider,” you whisper, too scattered to realize how exposed you are.
The word lands between you like a deflated balloon. Tyson’s shoulders ease, his spine uncoils. The emergency dissolves. Relief flickers across his face.
“Oh!” he exclaims. “Where?”
“I don’t know!” you say. “It disappeared under the laundry basket!”
He crouches, carefully, as though approaching a skittish animal. His cyclopean gaze softens when he finally spots it. His face brightens with uncomplicated delight.
“Hey, little guy,” he murmurs, holding out his hand for it to clamber onto.
You peer down at him from your perch, horrified hope in your tone. “You found it?”
“Yeah!” he says, grinning. He cups his hand over the spider with painstaking care, ensuring its spindly legs don’t panic their way up his arm. He straightens and holds his closed fist out toward you, proud, eager to share. “You wanna see?”
You recoil as if he’s proffering you a lit fuse. “No! Kill it!”
The smile slips from his face. He draws his hand back to his chest, protective by instinct rather than principle, shielding the tiny life inside as if it were something fragile and entrusted to him.
“I can’t do that,” he says, apologetic, like he hates the prospect of not being able to give you what you want. The idea seems genuinely baffling to him, like being asked to smash Sally Jackson’s favorite teacup.
Your composure finally breaks. Your eyes sting, mouth trembling. Tyson’s eye widens immediately, alarm superseding everything else.
“Oh— hey, no, don’t cry,” he says quickly, panicking now. “It’s okay. I’ll— I’ll put it outside!”
He moves with urgency, barefoot and earnest, hustling to the open window. He tips his hand carefully, watching until the spider vanishes into the hedges below.
When he turns back to you, sheepish and hopeful, knuckles grazing each other, “are you okay?”
You launch yourself at him, and he catches you easily with one arm, solid and unthinking, while you cling to his shirt with damp hands, heedless of the water darkening the fabric.