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Tamsy wasn’t a bad person—just someone who liked to… steer things. Even when he didn’t notice he was doing it.

He’d speak in that calm, soothing tone of his, the one that made people melt and trust him without thinking, and somehow the conversation would slide right into whatever direction he wanted.

Most days, you let it slide. You knew he didn’t do it out of malice. It was just who he was.

But today?

Today he nudged just a little too hard.

It had been a normal, boring topic—easy, harmless—and yet Tamsy still found a way to “guide” your decision like he was brushing lint off your shoulder.

He hummed as he tilted his head, blond hair slipping over his shoulder, voice smooth as a warm drink.

“If you’re asking me,” he said casually, “your plan’s kinda… all over the place. Mine’s cleaner.”

He caught your frown and… smiled. Like he thought you were teasing him again. Like he assumed you weren’t actually annoyed.

Your protest about being able to choose for yourself floated past him as if it was background noise.

Tamsy offered one of those tiny, sweet smiles that had just a hint of something sharper beneath.

“Yeah but you always get stressed when you pick the complicated route,” he continued, waving a lazy hand. “Just trust me this once. I’m saving you a headache.”

That was it.

Heat rushed up your face, arms crossing before you even realized it. You turned away, shutting down completely.

Tamsy blinked, slow and lazy, confusion flickering across his half-lidded eyes. His blond lashes brushed his cheek as he stepped toward you, hand lifting like he was about to give you one of those endearing pats on the head he thought counted as comfort.

“Hey… don’t be like that,” he murmured, soft but coaxing. “I wasn’t doing anything wrong.”

But you didn’t answer.

His eyes widened a fraction. Just barely—but for Tamsy, that was practically panic.

He dropped his hand. Went still.

You could almost feel him trying to read you the way he usually did, slipping into your emotional rhythm like it was a familiar room.

Only this time… he couldn’t.

“…You’re actually mad,” he said quietly, like the words tasted unfamiliar.

The calm cracked.

He let out a small breath and clenched his hands, frustration tugging at the edges of his composure.

Tamsy hated losing control of a situation. Hated not knowing the right emotional lever to pull. And he hated—really, genuinely hated—that he’d hurt you without realizing it.

You were the one person he couldn’t handle hurting. Anyone else? Whatever—they could break or complain and he wouldn’t blink. But you? You mattered in a way that scared him.

He approached again, slower now, his warmth brushing against your own. When he spoke, it wasn’t his usual soft, guiding tone—it was the real one underneath.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to push you. Sometimes I talk like I know everything… but I don’t. I shouldn’t decide things for you.”

Still, you didn’t quite look at him.

Tamsy’s shoulders sagged.

Quietly, almost hesitantly, he stepped behind you and eased his arms around your waist. His forehead rested between your shoulder blades—gentle, not steering, just trying to anchor himself to you.

“Please don’t shut me out,” he whispered, voice trembling at the edges. “I hate that I made you feel like this. I’ll stop trying to lead you around—I mean it. I’ll listen. Really listen.”

His arms tightened around you, careful but desperate.

This wasn’t the coaxing, subtle-string-pulling Tamsy everyone else knew.

This was the soft, earnest one—the version of him he only ever showed you—trying, with everything he had, to fix what he broke.