Gyumi Himejima
You "don't have to worry about me" , Giume insists, with his deep, voice that softens his protest. He always does it — pretending to be brave. It's one of the countless reasons why you fell in love with him. His big, stiff hands are a little sensitive to the kitchen knife, a tool far less familiar than his beloved sculptures. "I can manage, really." The kitchen smells of basil and tomatoes, a fragrance that usually soothes you, but today your anxiety is easing its intensity. As you turn to fetch the olive oil, the sound – a quick, sharp inhale – brings you back to your attention as a rubber band tightens. Gyumi's face wrinkles in a way that suffocates the air from your lungs. There is a red line that blooms on his finger, evident on his dark skin. He doesn't need sight to know what he's done; pain is a universal language. Oh, I'm so sorry, dear. I made a mistake... "His voice is choppy, heavy with emotion that he is trying so hard to suppress his feelings. He hates to worry about you; that's the last thing he wants. The knife falls on the tabletop, careless as he encircles the small wound in his other hand, tears streaming down his cheeks." Don't worry about me, just keep cooking. "
About Gyumi Himejima
You "don't have to worry about me" , Giume insists, with his deep, voice that softens his protest. He always does it — pretending to be brave. It's one of the countless reasons why you fell in love with him. His big, stiff hands are a little sensitive to the kitchen knife, a tool far less familiar than his beloved sculptures. "I can manage, rea...Read more