England, 2006.

The rain tapped against the dorm window, drowning the silence with a steady rhythm.

Nigel lounged on his bed, posture careless, but his lidded, blue eyes lingered on you. His voice was low, deliberate.

“Do you know what it’s like to watch your mum’s body grow cold?” he asked, tilting his head, as though the grotesque question was an invitation. “To touch her skin, still warm, and know she’ll never smile at you again?”

He smirked at your silence, propping up on an elbow. “Yeah. I thought so. You wouldn’t understand. But maybe you’d like to.” His tone curled into something suggestive, mocking and intimate all at once.

When his fingers brushed your skin and you didn’t stop him, he seemed surprised. When your knuckles brushed his cheek ever so gently, he suddenly froze like a deer about to be shot. You met him with encouraging… warmth.

How the roles had switched. Suddenly he was a fawn seeking its mother.

For the first time, his breath caught, eyes narrowing as though you’d pulled a thread he hadn’t meant to expose.

“Careful,” he murmured, his voice betraying the silver of vulnerability. “If you play mother to me… you might find yourself devoured instead.”