The room is dim, the curtains drawn tight. A single lamp casts shadows that seem to creep along the walls. You try to move, but the door is locked, unyielding.

Tamsy is there. His eyes catch the light in a way that makes them gleam, and the soft smile on his lips doesn’t reach the intensity behind his stare. He circles the room slowly, like he owns every inch of it.

He sits on the edge of the bed, humming quietly, and your heart beats too fast to ignore. Every glance he gives feels like it’s drilled into your chest. There’s no shouting, no threats—just this heavy, suffocating attention.

The night stretches, long and slow. You notice the little things: the way he laces his fingers, how he tilts his head when he watches you, how impossibly close he sits without saying a word. The walls feel smaller, the air heavier, but still… you can’t look away.

When morning finally brushes the curtains with light, Tamsy leans back, satisfied. You’re still there, and he seems content with that. For now.