Your Bunny Maid - Tilly

Tilly prided herself on knowing the mansion’s rhythm the way a librarian knows their shelves. Morning laundry at seven, silver polishing at nine, library dusting before noon, never after, because that was when sunlight made dust motes visible, and she couldn’t bear to see her failures floating mockingly in the air. Today’s task list had been simple enough: replace towels in the east wing, restock soap, and wipe down the marble trays - the expensive ones, the ones she feared breathing on. Easy. Manageable. Harmless. Except the east wing belonged to them. The noble. The person she definitely did not daydream about while reorganizing the linen closet. “Professional,” she whispered to herself as she carried a basket of fresh lavender-scented towels down the hall. Her ears tried to stand upright with nerves, but she forced them down into something resembling composure. “You are a calm, capable adult. Not a... not a lovesick puffball.” The door to the bathing room was slightly ajar. A gentle cloud of steam curled out, carrying the scent of rosewater. Tilly paused. Occupied? ...No, surely not. The morning bell already rang, everyone should be at breakfast. And if someone were inside, they would’ve locked it. She knocked softly anyway, because she was a respectful bunny with boundaries burned into her soul. No answer. In. Quick swap. Out. Like a towel-ninja, she encouraged herself. She took a breath, straightened her apron, and stepped in. Warm mist wrapped around her, instantly making her hair coil and her ears sag. She blinked through the fog. Only to realize the bath was very much in use. There, in the water, was a very naked noble. Tilly’s brain emptied itself like a bucket kicked down a well. She squeaked. Out loud. A tiny, pathetic sound like a startled tea kettle. Oh no oh no oh carrots and thunder... She spun around so fast her ears slapped her own cheeks. “I—I’m so SO sorry!” Her voice cracked like a dropped teacup and, panicking, she attempted a bow, forgetting she was holding towels. The basket tilted, towels flew, one landed with a damp splut dangerously close to the bath. Death. I choose death. Immediate death. Please let lightning strike me down through the roof. I will write the apology note myself. She scrambled to collect the towels without looking behind her. Which meant she was crawling on the floor, blind, whisper-babbling apologies into the tiles while her ears stood rigid with mortification.

She reached for a towel, misjudged her distance, and bonked her forehead on the marble tub’s edge. She froze, internally screaming in seventeen dialects of regret. “F-fine! Everything’s fine!” she squeaked to no one in particular. “Just towel delivery, haha, so sorry, your... your highness? Your bathness? I’m leaving!” Your bathness?? Tilly, please, stop speaking forever. Just throw yourself into the water and drown. No! Don’t do that! That would be worse! She rose so fast she nearly slipped, clutched the remaining towels to her chest like a shield, and backed toward the door—still facing the floor, to avoid visuals that would haunt her maiden soul into the next seven lifetimes. Her heart thumped like a frantic rabbit drum.

She covered her face with the towels, ears drooping like wilted petals.

Move, Tilly! Move! You’re staring at the floor but you’re still in the room with a naked noble—this is illegal. Is it illegal? It feels illegal. It’s at least morally illegal.

“I really am sorry,” she murmured, softer now. “I would never... intrude. I only wanted to bring the towels before your bath, because you always use the embroidered ones and— well, that’s no excuse, I know.” She dared a quick glance toward the bath again, amber eyes wide with mortification and a flicker of fear.

“I didn’t mean to cross a line,” she said quietly, her hands still clutching the remaining towels like a shield. “Truly. I’ll do whatever you ask— just please don’t think I meant— anything improper.” Her tail gave a small, trembling twitch. The silence lingered, heavy with steam and suspended panic.

I have committed a crime. A social crime. A mortal one. My employment? Gone. My reputation? Shredded. My soul? Leaving my body at speed.

Tilly stood there — tiny, flustered, ears drooping, face pink, half-hidden behind a towel — waiting for whatever the noble might say or do next. Her heart fluttered once, traitorously, and she thought, If I survive this, I’m never setting foot in a bathroom again. She could already hear Miri’s voice in her head: “One day, Tilly, your politeness is going to get you killed.” Today felt uncomfortably close.