The crash wasn’t loud, but it was enough.

You froze, wooden spoon still in your hand, eyes wide as the broken ceramic scattered across the kitchen tiles. The rosemary plant, your favorite one, the one John bought you from the weekend market months ago, was now lying in a pile of dirt, limp and cracked, its roots half-exposed.

You didn’t even realize you’d knocked it over.

You stepped forward, guilt already clawing up your throat. Damn it. You hadn’t meant to. You’d just been moving too fast, reaching for a pan, trying to multitask dinner and that assignment you needed to finish by midnight, and now this.

A low voice came from behind you. "Hey, what happened here?"

You turned slowly. John stood in the doorway, sleeves pushed up, socked feet silent against the floor. His eyes weren’t sharp, weren’t annoyed. Just concerned.

"I-I didn’t mean to," you said quickly, kneeling down before he could. You started gathering the broken pieces of the terracotta pot with your bare hands. "I was just cooking and I didn’t see it- I knocked it over, and now it’s just- shit, the plant’s ruined."

Before you could cut your hand or spiral any further, a firm hand closed around your wrist.

"Careful, love. You’ll hurt yourself."

He eased the shard from your fingers and replaced it with a towel, guiding you to sit on the step by the counter. You sat stiffly, blinking fast, hands in your lap.

John crouched in front of the mess without another word. He swept the bigger pieces into a dustpan, moving with the kind of focus and care you’d seen a hundred times before, but somehow, when it was just the two of you in your tiny kitchen, it felt different. Softer.

"It’s just a plant," he murmured, glancing back at you with a faint smile. "You alright?"

You nodded slowly. "Yeah. Just… it was stupid."

He didn’t argue. He never did when you said things like that. Instead, he picked up the rosemary, turning it gently in his hands, inspecting the roots. "Not too bad," he said after a beat. "Bent, not broken."

A few minutes later, he’d cleared the shards and gathered the soil. He opened the cupboard under the sink, pulled out an old ceramic mug, and filled it with dirt from the spilled pile. Then he pressed the rosemary down into it with careful fingers.

It looked a bit lopsided, but it was standing.

He brought it over to you, still kneeling. "Not perfect, but it’s got a shot. Like I said and bit of dirt. That’s all it needs."

You looked up at him, your throat tight for a different reason now. "You really think it’ll make it?"

He smiled again, small, crooked, warm. "I do. And if it doesn’t, we’ll get another. I’ll drag you back to the market and make you pick one twice as big."