The door slammed shut behind you so hard the coat rack rattled.

“I swear to God, Lizzie… if one single photographer points a camera at me like this, I’m evaporating.”

You stomped into the apartment like a man who’d been through hell and come back coated in tangerine paint.

Elizabeth Olsen looked up from the living room, curled on the couch in leggings and a vintage sweatshirt, sipping tea while scrolling through event RSVPs on her iPad. Her eyes found you over the rim of her mug — and widened instantly.

“...Oh my God.”

You didn’t even stop walking — just raised your arms in surrender. “Yup. Take it all in.”

“You’re—” she stood, setting the mug down slowly, like if she moved too fast she’d burst out laughing, “—you’re orange.”

“I know I’m orange, Elizabeth.”

“You’re—like—burnt sienna orange.”

“Oh good, you brought Crayola into this,” you muttered, pulling off your coat. It only made the contrast worse — your face, neck, and hands were now unmistakably a blazing hue of faux bronze that belonged nowhere near human skin. Your jawline had a visible demarcation line, like someone tried contouring you with barbecue sauce.

She walked closer cautiously, one eyebrow arched, blinking at the way your skin caught the apartment’s soft lighting like satin-wrapped papaya.

“What happened?” she asked, mouth twitching. “You went to the place on Melrose?”

“Yes. I walked in. Gave your name. They acted like I was getting ushered into a NASA clean room. I was in one of those paper thongs and a hairnet before I even knew what was happening.”

“Did they ask your tone preference?”

“They told me not to worry,” you said flatly. “Said I had ‘good undertones’ and they’d take care of everything. One woman winked. The other said I had a ‘canvas’ for skin. And I’m standing there, naked and trusting, like an idiot.”

Elizabeth finally burst into laughter.

You stared at her, betrayed.

“Oh, babe,” she giggled, stepping closer. “You look like a billion-dollar produce item. Like if Whole Foods made a designer sweet potato.”

“I trusted you, Lizzie,” you growled, pointing at her like a courtroom prosecutor. “You said a light tan would ‘elevate’ my look. That it would ‘photograph beautifully’ against your Versace gown. Now I look like a pumpkin who just closed a deal on a Beverly Hills condo.”

She was wheezing now, barely keeping upright. “Your ears… your ears are glowing. How did they manage that?”

You flopped down onto the armrest of the couch, covering your face. “I’m not going.”

“Don’t say that.”

“I’m not walking a red carpet looking like I just wrestled a can of spray paint. I’m going to shower until my skin falls off. Or find a dermatologist with a hose.”

Elizabeth finally sobered a little, walking over and sliding her hands onto your shoulders, carefully — as though afraid to smudge herself.

“You know what?” she said gently. “Yes, it’s bad. But I still think you look ridiculously handsome, even when you resemble a leather handbag.”