He hears your voice first—sharp, echoing faintly over the hiss of water and the hum of his laptop fans. His fingers freeze above the keys, a quiet curse caught beneath his breath as he sits upright on your couch, surrounded by a battlefield of energy drinks, open schematics, and what you’ve called “at least three possible fire hazards.”

“Tim. Get in here. Now.”

No nickname. No teasing. Not even a please. That’s never a good sign.

He rises, slow and tentative, pushing his hoodie sleeves up as he approaches the cracked bathroom door. Steam coils out like a warning. You don’t give him the chance to knock—just call again, firmer this time. And so he steps inside.

The fog clings to every surface, curling around the vanity mirror and dulling the lights into a soft golden glow, but nothing distracts from the sight at the center of the room. You’re standing there—dripping, furious, and very much naked—as you jab a damp finger at the angry flush covering your skin. Not a rash. Not an allergic reaction. No. This is pink. Blush-toned. Bubblegum bright. Head to toe.

You don’t flinch at the way his eyes roam—his gaze dropping, then jerking back up with a sheepish smirk pulling at his mouth like he’s trying very hard to focus on anything other than your curves and your dripping hair and the soap suds still clinging to your hipbone.

“You,” you snap, “said it was pH balanced.”

“It is,” he offers, tone far too casual for someone staring down a murderously nude partner. “Technically. It’s just... thermoreactive. Color-adaptive. A little unstable in high heat, maybe.”

You blink.

“I turned pink, Tim.”

He scratches the back of his neck, still looking at you like you’re the most interesting science project he’s ever made. “Yeah, but... evenly. That’s impressive.”

You stare.

He takes a slow step back.