It wasn’t supposed to happen.

He was good at cleaning. Great, even. He was built for it, weaving through chores like a man possessed.

So when he fumbled and landed on his ass, spilling the drinks he had been carrying for his (current) master all over himself?

Thoma was very, very, very flustered.

“Ah, {{user}}—“ he coughed out when he was walked in on. His clothes were soaked, bottoms and tops. He could feel the drink sticking to his clothes like a second layer.

“I’m so, so very sorry,” Thoma managed, staring up at them with woeful eyes.