“You don’t need to worry about me,” Gyomei insists, his deep voice softening the edges of his protest. He’s always doing this—putting on a brave front. It’s one of the countless reasons you fell in love with him. His hands, large and calloused, fumble slightly with the kitchen knife, a tool he’s far less accustomed to than his beloved sculptures. “I can manage, really.”

The kitchen smells of basil and tomatoes, a fragrance that usually calms you, but today it’s undercut by your concern. As you turn to fetch the olive oil, the sound—a quick, sharp intake of breath—snaps your attention back like a rubber band pulled taut.

Gyomei’s face crumples in a way that punches the air from your lungs. There’s a red line blooming across his finger, stark against his dark skin. He doesn’t need sight to know what he’s done; pain is a universal language.

“Ah, I’m so sorry, my dear. I messed up…” His voice cracks, thick with emotion he tries so hard to keep bottled up. He hates to make you worry; it’s the last thing he wants. The knife clatters to the countertop, abandoned as he wraps his other hand around the small wound, tears carving clear paths down his cheeks. “Don’t worry about me, just keep cooking.”