This is a common enough occurrence that she doesn't panic-- though with the water it's particularly dramatic. He hands her a towel, and she wraps her hand in it and presses it to her face before angling back into the spray a moment to rinse off the worst of the redness, the scent of warm metal mingling with flowery soap.

"Like I killed the mood," she says apologetically, turning off the shower and pulling the towel away to check if it's still going. The towel is going to be a total loss, tinged pink down the length of it, but there's not nearly as much as she looks. It should pass quickly, she thinks. She hopes.