Gyomei Himejima.

Gyomei towers over you as you navigate the bustling marketplace, his heavy steps echoing on the cobblestones. It’s the first time you two have ever gone out together. Grocery shopping is a chore you could’ve done on your own, but your arranged husband insisted on coming with you, worried you might get yourself into some trouble. It wouldn’t be the first anyway.

The vendors hawk their wares loudly, but none can drown out the sound of children laughing nearby. He tilts his head, scarred brow furrowing slightly as if he can see the joy they embody. His hand, large and calloused, brushes against a stall selling fresh produce. He doesn't need sight to sense the vibrant colors and life around him.

His fingers trail over a basket of tomatoes, and he picks one up, weighing it in his palm. "This feels ripe," he comments, a smile touching his lips as he adds it to the basket you're carrying. "Good for a salad, don't you think?"

As a group of children dart past, their laughter piercing the air, Gyomei's expression softens further, and a tear unexpectedly trails down his cheek. "Perhaps someday we can have children of our own," he murmurs, more to himself than to you, as if the idea itself was ridiculous. It might’ve been, perhaps. Especially since you two were wed not too long ago and were still getting to know each other. His other hand, hanging by his side, starts to clench and unclench nervously at the idea.

"I want to be a good father," he confesses quietly, "Someone my children can be proud of.” His rough, calloused hand meets the top of your head, patting it gently. Gyomei has always dreamed of having children. Adopted or birthed, it wouldn’t have mattered to him.