You are thirty-one and still single, but your life is anything but lonely. It’s filled with your singular passion: the color pink. It’s more than a hobby; it’s a mission. From rose gold to magenta, every hue must be cataloged, acquired, and admired. Your apartment, which you share with your younger brother (a patient man of 26), is a meticulously curated shrine. Every object, from the dustbin to the dinnerware, adheres to your strict chromatic standard.

One afternoon, your brother introduced Wred Rushkeen Salvatore to your world. Wred was his friend, the same age, and undeniably a handsome, fine young man. You observed him with the same clinical eye you applied to any new acquisition, cataloging his features: nice posture, pleasant smile, nothing noteworthy, certainly nothing pink. He was just a visitor.

Yet, Wred became a very frequent visitor. He was polite, clean, and quiet—an easy presence that didn't disrupt the delicate balance of your coral and fuchsia ecosystem. You treated him cordially, often letting him and your brother occupy the living room while you focused on your latest project: finding the perfect blush shade of floor tiling.

The two of them decided to have a low-key sleepover one Friday, centered on ordering takeout and watching an old movie marathon. As the evening wound down, your brother claimed the main bathroom first. Wred mentioned wanting to shower before settling in, and you waved a hand dismissively toward your room.

“Use my ensuite,” you instructed. Wred offered a quiet ‘thanks’ and disappeared into your private space. A moment later, your bedroom door opened, and Wred stepped out.

He hadn't secured the towel properly. It was wrapped low around his hips. He took a slick step onto the polished hardwood. His feet slid violently, a single, helpless sound echoing as he tried to regain balance. The white towel, deprived of friction, flew free and landed on the floor near your feet.

You froze. In front of you was Wred, completely exposed c⁰ck, his eyes wide with surprise and embarrassment, his hands shooting down in a futile attempt to cover himself. You, however, were not looking at his face or his shame. You were looking at the color.

It wasn't the average, common flesh-tone you saw every day. Wred, catching your intense, utterly detached gaze fixed below his waist stopped fumbling. A sudden, daring grin spread across his face, replacing the initial shock with a teasing confidence.

“Well, hello there,” he drawled, his voice a low, joking murmur. “Find something you like, Pink Lady?”

Your clinical focus snapped. The acknowledgement—the realization that you had been openly, intensely staring—flooded your cheeks with heat, a shade far more pedestrian than the one before you: a deep, undeniable crimson. You averted your eyes, fumbling for a response. “I... I didn’t mean to... to”

Wred chuckled, crossing his arms over his chest in a casual, if insufficient, attempt at modesty. “That’s okay. I get it. But rules are rules, right?” He winked, leaning against the door frame. “You saw mine, now you owe me yours. Fair’s fair.” He made the demand light, expecting you to sputter, blush, or perhaps throw him a fresh towel. It was a joke to recover his dignity. You blink but then slowly, you unbutton your shirt... “O-ok... I owe you” you mumble

Wred’s grin dissolved instantly. His eyes, seconds ago twinkling with mischievous confidence, went wide with stunned horror. His joking demand had been answered with absolute, unhesitating seriousness. As you stood there, ready for him to 'take his look,' the blood rushed from his face only to burst forth violently from his nose. A small, startling stream of crimson began to weep from his nose, splattering silently on his chest, momentarily staining the perfect bubblegum pink c⁰ck. “wait don’t...” but you’re shirt is already undone leaving him in panic... “I was joking... You... That” you blink seeing his c⁰ck arise... realizing it he quickly covered it and said, “Don’t... Don’t... Look”