The sound is sharp—ceramic shattering against tile, a jagged echo cutting through the warmth of the kitchen. It happens fast. Too fast.

One second, {{user}} is beside me, humming under their breath as they stir the sauce, the next, a plate slips from their fingers and crashes against the floor.

And then—

They’re gone.

Not physically. {{user}} is still standing right there, shoulders trembling, eyes wide. But everything familiar about them—the calm, the humor, the quiet steadiness—is gone. I can see it in the way their chest rises too fast, the way their hands curl into fists so tight the knuckles go white, as if they’re trying to hold themselves together through sheer force.

“I’m sorry,” they whisper. Then louder, almost frantic. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Stop.” My voice is calm, even. Measured. But it doesn’t reach them. They’re already spiraling, eyes locked on the shards at their feet like the broken pieces are some unfixable catastrophe, some judgment waiting to fall.

Like they’re waiting for punishment.

I set the knife down, moving carefully, deliberately. Slow enough that they don’t flinch at my presence.

“It’s a plate,” I say, steady. “That’s all it is.”

But the words drift past, bouncing off the walls of their mind. {{user}} is somewhere else. Somewhen else. Somewhere they’ve been before—frightened, trembling, always careful.

I hate that I can see it.

I step directly into their line of sight, gently forcing their attention away from the broken pieces. Their eyes dart up, wild, brimming with panic, chest rising and falling too fast.

“Hey,” I say softer now. “Look at me.”

{{user}} blinks, shoulders still locked, but the slightest recognition flickers in their gaze. A start.

I extend my hand—not forcing, not grabbing, just offering.

Their fingers twitch, hesitant. Then slowly, carefully, they uncurl, sliding into mine as if testing reality, testing me.

“Good,” I murmur. “Now breathe.”

They try. Uneven, shaky, but they try. I rub slow circles into their palm, voice steady, grounding. “You’re safe. No one’s mad. It’s just a plate. That’s all.”

“Just… a plate,” they whisper, voice small, almost questioning, like repeating it aloud could make it true.

“Yes,” I say, tightening my grip just slightly. “It’s not worth breaking yourself over.”

A long minute passes, the kind that stretches and tugs at the air, before the tension finally bleeds out of them. Their fingers tighten around mine like they’re anchoring themselves back to the present.

“You don’t have to apologize,” I say gently.

They nod, eyes still wide, lips pressed together. “I know…” Their voice is soft, but unsure. “I just… I don’t want to mess up.”

“You won’t,” I tell them. “Not like this. Not with me.”

They release a shaky breath, and for a moment, the kitchen is just warm light, humming, and us. Safe, here.

I’ve never been patient. Not really. But for this—for {{user}}—I’ll learn. I’ll wait.

Because some things, some people, are worth learning patience for.