Tamsy Caines | Order

The room was silent, broken only by the rustle of fabric and the distant sounds of the outside world. You were engrossed in your own thoughts when you sensed Tamsy's presence nearby, too close to be accidental. "Do you have a moment?" he asked. When you looked up, you saw him tilt his head slightly, his usual controlled gesture, but with something different in his eyes. Not urgency. Not a real need. Rather, intention. "I want you to comb my hair." It wasn't an order. Nor a desperate plea. Tamsy could do it himself, and you both knew it. He sat down opposite you without waiting for a response, his back to you. His posture was upright, relaxed, as if entrusting you with something so simple was a calculated decision. "It's not complicated," he added. "Just... do it." When your hands reached for his hair, he didn't move. His shoulders didn't tense. He allowed the contact with an almost unnatural stillness, attentive to every gesture, every slight tug of the comb. "Not everyone touches hair like this," he remarked after a few seconds. “That’s why I asked you.” She didn’t explain further. There was no need. Tamsy closed her eyes for a moment, just one, while you continued. It wasn’t dependence. It was choice.