My dad had one rule when he left for his three-day business trip:
"Don't burn the house down."
That's it. Not "Don't kill each other." Not "Try to get along." Not even a vague "Be responsible."
Just fire prevention. A low bar. Practically on the floor.
Naturally, we tripped over it.
It all started with a spider.
Yes, a spider.
A fat, hairy one with legs that looked like they could operate machinery and a vibe that screamed "vengeful reincarnated king." It appeared in the upstairs hallway like it owned the place, right as I was walking back from the bathroom, hair damp, shirtless (because laundry), and emotionally stable (relatively speaking).
Then came Elena. Also walking down the hall. Also in a towel. Also holding a candle like she was in a ghost movie.
And then we saw it. On the wall. Just above the hallway thermostat.
"NOPE," she screamed, dropping the candle on a side table. "No. Absolutely not. Burn it down. Burn the whole house down."
"It's just a spider," I said, taking a step back anyway. "A big, demonic spider with a social security number, but still."
She reached for me and clutched my arm. "Kill it!"
"I'm in boxers, Elena!"
"Use them as a weapon!"
"I don't think Fruit of the Loom is an effective combat tool!"
The spider, possibly tired of our nonsense, scurried upward.
Elena screamed again and pushed me.
I, in turn, pushed her.
She tripped.
And that's how we both fell—backwards, yelling—into the hallway storage closet.
The door slammed shut behind us.
Then—click.
Darkness.
"Oh no," I said.
"Oh hell no," she muttered. "Tell me that wasn't—"
"Yep."
"You've got to be kidding me."
"The latch locks from the outside."
"Who invented this stupid horror closet?!"
"My dad."
"Of course he did."
We stood in silence, breathing in the sweet aroma of dust, old coats, and seasonal regrets.
Then she groaned.
"I can't believe I'm trapped in here. With you. While mostly naked."
"You pushed me!"
"Because you didn't kill the spider!"
"You screamed like it mugged you!"
"I have trauma, Aaron!"
I squinted, trying to adjust to the dark. "Do you want my shirt?"
She paused.
"What?"
I could hear her shift. "Why would I want your shirt?"
"I don't know, I just—your towel's slipping."
There was a very, very long pause. And then:
"…Fine."
I peeled off my (slightly damp) T-shirt and handed it toward the vague outline of her silhouette.
There was a lot of fumbling. I may have accidentally brushed her shoulder.
Definitely not on purpose.
"Okay," she said after a moment. "I'm decent. Decent-ish. Don't look."
"It's pitch black in here."
"Still."
We sat down. Or crouched. I wasn't sure. Space was tight.
I could hear her breathing. Feel the warmth of her knee against mine. Smell her shampoo again. Of course.
"This is not how I thought today would go," she muttered.
"Same."
"I was gonna bake banana bread."
"I was gonna do laundry."
"We live dangerous lives."
A beat of silence. Then, suddenly, she snorted.
"Sorry, I just—what even is our life right now? Who writes this crap? Trapped in a closet with your stepmom? It's like a low-budget soap opera written by a sugar-high intern."
I laughed, despite myself. "Yeah. We're basically living in a rejected Netflix pilot."
We lapsed into silence again. This time… not entirely awkward.
There was something strange about being stuck in the dark with someone — especially someone you're trying very hard not to like in that way. It stripped things down. Not physically (though… okay, yeah, a little physically), but emotionally. All the noise and pretense kind of… dissolved.
"You're not what I expected," I said quietly.
She shifted beside me. "Oh yeah?"
"I thought you'd be like… I don't know. Shallow. Fake. Just trying to spend Dad's money."
"Oof. Brutal."
"I didn't mean—"
"No, you're right. That's what most people think. Trophy wife. Airhead. All that."
"You're not."
"Thanks. I think."
Another pause.
Then she said, voice softer than I'd ever heard it, "You know I'm not that much older than you, right?"
I swallowed. "Yeah. I know."
"Your dad forgets that sometimes. I think he wanted a… reset. A new life. A younger model."
"That's gross."
She laughed. But it was bitter. "Welcome to marriage."
I turned my head, even though I couldn't see her.
"Are you happy with him?"
"…That's a complicated question."
"You don't have to answer."
She did anyway.
"I thought I would be. At first, he was so… stable. Predictable. And after my last relationship, I needed that."
"What was he like?"
"The last guy? A poet. Literally. He wrote odes about grilled cheese. But he also forgot my birthday and 'borrowed' my rent money for crystals."
"Crystals?"
"Yep. Claimed they were 'charged under a blood moon.' I charged his laptop into the street."
I laughed, but she didn't.
"So when your dad showed up," she said, "in his weird button-ups and Excel spreadsheets and awkward dad jokes—I thought, hey, maybe boring is good."
"Is it?"
She sighed. "Boring doesn't mean safe. Turns out, even the reliable ones leave you feeling lonely."
We were quiet again.
Then she whispered, almost too softly to hear, "Sometimes I feel like I married a houseplant. Just sits there. Occasionally needs water. Doesn't talk much."
I shouldn't have laughed. But I did. And then she laughed too.
It turned into a full-blown giggle fit, in the dark, huddled on the floor, slightly disheveled, half-dressed, and emotionally compromised.
"This is so weird," I said.
"Tell me about it."
And then—
A sound.
Click.
Light poured in.
It was the cleaning lady. Or maybe a neighbor. I didn't care. All I knew was that someone had opened the door.
We blinked into the hallway like we'd just been birthed from an emotional dryer.
Elena stood up quickly, adjusting the shirt. My shirt. Still barefoot. Still flushed.
I scrambled to my feet. Our knees knocked.
"Long story," she told the woman at the door.
The woman raised her eyebrows and walked away without a word.
We stood in the hallway.
She looked at me. I looked at her.
And then—
"Do not tell your father about this," she said.
"Agreed."
We both nodded, then quickly, awkwardly, went in opposite directions.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
Not because of the spider (though honestly, I think it moved into my sock drawer), and not because of the closet trauma.
But because her voice kept replaying in my head.
"Sometimes I feel like I married a houseplant."
And I hated—hated—how much that bothered me.
Not just because it meant she was unhappy.
But because part of me—some twisted, selfish, very bad part of me—was glad.
And that scared me more than any spider ever could.