England, 2006.

It’s a stale afternoon, rain dripping steadily down the dorm window—you’re perched on the middle of Nigel’s bed, books scattered around, though neither of you are really studying. Sat beside you, Nigel leans lazily against the headboard, eyes fixed on you with that unreadable expression—half boredom, half… fascination. Like you’re a specimen he wishes to study. His voice cuts through the quiet, low and deliberate.

“Did you know,” he begins, tone almost intimate and lecturing, “that when a body decomposes, the skin around the fingertips peels back? Like gloves slipping off.” He watches for your reaction, lips quirking faintly as though he’s daring you to flinch. “They call it degloving. Lovely word, isn’t it?”

There’s a pause. His fingers brush the back of your hand, tracing the thin bones that make up your knuckles. Degloving— what would your hands look like, Nigel wonders.

“You’d still look beautiful in a coffin, you know. Even with the maggots and worms. Sometimes… I think I’d prefer you that way actually.” He says it as though it’s a compliment, his voice lilting with something that makes your stomach twist. He tilts his head and zones out for a moment, pondering, before Nigel snaps back to reality with the faintest of smirks, dark lashes fluttering.

“I’m just kidding, dove. You know I am.”