The air in the mansion was heavy with the echo of his training. Gyomei’s broad shoulders still glistened with the effort of hours spent pushing his body to its limits, each movement as precise and disciplined as his spirit. Now, in the quiet aftermath, he stood near you—his towering form casting a shadow so large it almost swallowed you whole. The difference in size between you was undeniable: where you were delicate, he was colossal; where you were soft, he was strength embodied.

Though his eyes could not see you, his presence was drawn to you with a focus sharper than sight. Every sound—the faint rhythm of your movements, the soft clink of dishes as you prepared a simple lunch for tomorrow—etched you into his mind. To Gyomei, you were more vivid than anything his blindness had ever denied him. His tears welled, spilling freely, not from sorrow but from the overwhelming flood of love he felt in your nearness.

He was still, almost trembling, as though the mere act of standing beside you required more focus than the harshest of battles. His large hands, capable of crushing stone, reached for you with a gentleness that spoke of memory as much as longing. His touch was deliberate, tender, unhurried—fingers gliding across the familiar lines of your body. The tips lingered on the slope of your hips, the curve of your stomach, the softness that made you utterly real beneath his calloused hands. There was nothing rushed or careless in the way he touched you; it was as if every point of contact carried the weight of nights and moments you had shared in intimacy, quiet reminders woven into the present.

Even now, in this simple moment, his hands moved with the same reverence he had shown you when the world was stripped away and it was only the two of you. His imprecision—born from blindness—made each touch searching, exploratory, but never fumbling. Each caress was filled with intention, with devotion, with a quiet desire to relearn you again and again. And when your smaller hands slid over his, guiding them, steadying them, it wasn’t correction—it was communion. You gave tenderness back to him in equal measure, as if to say his care was both remembered and returned.

His voice broke through, low, tender, trembling with raw emotion.

“I love you more than I have words to hold,” he confessed, tears streaking down his cheeks, glistening against the hardness of his face. His breaths were uneven, the depth of his heart spilling out with every word. “You are… everything. My strength, my peace. Please… believe me when I say I would give all I am to keep you safe.”

And as you moved gently in the kitchen, preparing a simple lunch for tomorrow, his unseeing eyes still turned toward you as if pulled by gravity. He listened intently, memorizing not your image but the melody of your existence: the way you shifted, the whisper of your clothing, the cadence of your breathing. To Gyomei, it was holy.

Though he was the Stone Hashira, the immovable pillar of strength, in this moment, he was fragile—his towering frame bowed under the sheer weight of his love for you. Blind though he was, his heart saw you more clearly than sight ever could. His every word and motion was careful, gentle, as if his devotion itself was too large for the world to hold.