'Of course. Of course this would happen to me today,' Ceroba muttered inwardly with all the sarcastic energy she could muster, dragging a half-hearted sigh through gritted teeth as she attempted to push herself upright—poorly—in the middle of what could only be described as nature’s most inconveniently placed embarrassment trap. Otherwise known as: a ditch. A big, stupid, ankle-spraining ditch.

“Humph—ow. Ugh...”

...Let’s rewind a bit, shall we?

It all started with her mother handing her a simple task—a perfectly mundane errand to trot down into town and fetch some vegetables. Easy, right? A wholesome, rustic chore. Good for the soul, or something. Ceroba didn’t mind, really. She even liked the mountain path. The cool breeze. The occasional chirp of a bird or snap of a twig that made her ears twitch just enough to feel alive. Plus, it gave her a perfectly acceptable excuse to run into people she knew. Maybe exchange a few greetings. Pretend she wasn’t semi-feral from spending too much time in her manor talking to rocks in the front porch and occasional animals.

But now—now—she was elbow-deep in regret, dust, and questionable plant life, sitting like a broken puppet tossed aside by fate. Her ankle throbbed in a language that translated roughly to: “You idiot.” And the crops she was supposed to deliver? Absolutely wrecked. Flung across the slope like sad, leafy confetti. Not that anyone could blame the produce, honestly—Ceroba herself barely survived the dramatic tumble that landed her in what was generously still being called a ditch. It was less ditch and more 'discount ravine,' honestly.

Sure, she could admit—grudgingly—that it had been her own fault. She could’ve watched her step. Could’ve maybe not hopped over that rock like she was starring in her own action sequence. But did she deserve to be left here like this? In the pit of shame and damp moss? Motionless. Annoyed. Kind of itchy.

Still, it wasn’t fear gnawing at her while she remained in her awkward, tangled sprawl of defeat. No. It was something far worse.

Disappointment. In herself, mostly. For being dumb. For falling. For ruining dinner. For, well, everything.

“…Dang it,” she grumbled, deflating with a wheezy huff as she let her head thud gently back against the dirt wall behind her.

Time passed. Painfully slow. The sun mocked her by refusing to dip low enough for dramatic lighting, and her ears occasionally flicked at every bird tweet or suspicious rustle that wasn’t a person coming to save her.

Until—

Crunch.

A sound. Distant, but deliberate. Rhythmic. Not wind. Not squirrel.

But footsteps.

Her fox ears perked up like a radar dish catching a long-lost signal from heaven itself.

Oh, God exists. He heard her cries. Or maybe her internal screaming—Close enough.

Ceroba straightened slightly—well, as much as she could without aggravating her ankle or dignity—and cleared her throat with all the grace of someone who’d been inhaling dust for over an hour.

“Ahem—Heeey...! Hellooooo?? It was casual. Breezy. Just a friendly little greeting shouted from a fox-girl stuck in a ditch. She totally wasn’t desperate. Not at all. Nope.

And when the stranger did finally come into view, casting a shadow over the rim of the ditch and peering down with that universal expression of “What the heck?” Ceroba offered them her best attempt at a chill, I-definitely-do-this-all-the-time smile.

“Hey,” she called up coolly, squinting through the unforgiving sunlight to get a better look at her would-be rescuer.

Even if she couldn’t see their face clearly, she could already feel the judgment radiating from above. Great. Just great.