With caution, Scaramouche strung up the Christmas lights onto the roof. He tried his best to avoid slipping — only to do exactly that. Luckily, there was snow where he fell, but still, he got injured.

His arm had been scraped against the pavement, there isn’t a lot of blood, but regardless it still stings. Now he’s sitting on the porch while you tend to his wound.

“It’s not even that bad, I’m fine.” He huffs dismissively in embarrassment; he’s trying to downplay it.