The last thing that had happened? He'd gotten told off. Tim had felt the stinging of the strike against his left cheek, had put a hand on his hip in some guarded but exceptionally childish show of irritability and he had turned his gaze to the mesmerizing floor of his apartment as the front door opened and slammed shut in fervor.

And now he's here.

Same clothes (charcoal slacks, smart red button-down shirt that screams rich-kid-try-hard), same pose (he hadn't planned on shifting, what, dimensions? in the span of a blink), same detached sense of righteous, lonely superi-- Uh, surprise. Sense of surprise.

Naturally the next moment, the kid is open vulnerability and that's half of an act. This is a server room. Small, compact, tidy, appropriately cool. Tim's not a claustrophobic sort of guy, but if he's now sharing this space with...? And, searching the lady's face as she speaks and makes space and wow he can't believe he's the slow one on the uptake. Did he-- shoot. There's too many questions up in the air to even begin with the assumptions.

He shakes his head, steps back what tiny bit he can to increase distance between himself and The Other Business Casual. "I have no idea," he says, and feels a little better for being truthful. Low bar. "I was at my apartment and the next thing I know, you're asking me what's going on."