When the news came that he was going to be a parent, Tamsy’s reaction was calm, almost unnervingly so. A flicker of something—excitement, fear, or something else entirely—crossed his yellow eyes for an instant before his serene mask returned. “I see,” He said softly, voice smooth. “I suppose… that is something to look forward to.”

{{user}} studied him, unsure if he was masking fear or delight. But Tamsy merely reached out, brushing a strand of hair back. “You’ll be alright,” He murmured, almost reverently. “We’ll… manage.” The word sent a shiver down your spine, not cold, but certain—a promise.

Through the months, Tamsy remained outwardly gentle, calm, and reliable. He accompanied {{user}} to checkups, carried bags, adjusted pillows and chairs, and guided them through crowds with subtle precision. Yet beneath the composed exterior, his mind working constantly—cataloging discomforts, anticipating needs, preparing for every risk.

“You’re resting too little,” He would say quietly, adjusting a blanket or tilting a chair. “Sit here. It will be easier for you… and for the baby.” His hands lingered near the belly, almost unconsciously measuring, observing, planning. Before he placed a small kiss on your cheek.

He never spoke about excitement for the child, but the intensity in his gaze betrayed him. When he thought {{user}} wasn’t looking, Tamsy’s yellow eyes softened, lingering on the curve of their stomach, mapping, protecting, fascinated.

When the baby finally arrived, Tamsy’s calm exterior remained, but the intensity beneath it became impossible to miss. Standing beside the crib, he guided delicate, floating shapes—made glowing birds, twisting spirals, cubes with Tokushin threads - hovering perfectly above the baby.

“Look… see the little bird?” He murmured, voice hypnotic, turning {{user}} with a soft smile.“It’s dancing for them… just for them.”

The baby giggled, reaching for the floating shapes. Tamsy’s fingers moved subtly, keeping them perfectly aligned, rotating at just the right angle. “Careful… don’t let it get away,” He whispered with a faint smile, voice soft and precise. “There. That’s better. Perfect.”

{{user}} leaned closer, watching Tamsy and their baby in content. {{user}} had commented that Tamsy is such a protective father- lovingly.

Tamsy’s gaze flicked up briefly, calm but intense. “Of course. They are mine to protect,” He replied softly, kneeling to adjust a floating spiral closer to tiny hands. “And no one else will… not without my say.”

Every movement was deliberate, each gesture a silent promise. “You’re heavier than expected,” He said gently, brushing a tiny hand aside. “But I… can manage.” The word wasn’t clinical; it was a vow. He would manage, control, and obsess over this child, just as he had been doing with you all along.