POV: Dr. Lyra Quinn
I pride myself on being composed. Analytical. Methodical. A woman of science.
And yet, here I am, arms crossed in front of the observation glass, watching a genetically modified vampire stretch like he's in a Calvin Klein ad for clinically starched lab coats. All while silently panicking over the after-effects of the laxative-laced smoothie I slipped him an hour ago.
"Are you observing my biceps or waiting for me to spontaneously combust?" Vincent Monreau's voice rang out from inside the sealed lab room, casual and amused, like he knew exactly what he was doing to my last three brain cells.
I nearly dropped my clipboard. "Both," I muttered under my breath, then clicked the intercom. "Vitals. I'm observing your vitals. Sit down, Vincent."
He gave me that smug grin again—the one that suggested he knew full well I was a few steps from writing 'Mr. Monreau is not to wear lab-issued T-shirts ever again' into the experiment protocols.
Vincent had a lean but muscled frame, every inch of him mapped with tattoos—some old-school black ink, others luminescent sigils that pulsed faintly under his skin. I hadn't asked what they meant. I wasn't ready to know.
He sat in the lab chair, stretching lazily. The tight white fabric of his shirt clung to him like it was created to test my composure.
"Still feeling good?" I asked, pretending I hadn't orchestrated gastrointestinal betrayal.
"Surprisingly light." He patted his abdomen. "Like I could do yoga. Or go for a run. Or murder someone with a fencing foil."
"Charming," I said, marking down observations. "Energy levels normal?"
"Above normal." His grin widened. "You sure that smoothie didn't have... illicit ingredients?"
"Define illicit."
"Something designed to make me poop like a mortal."
I choked. "What?"
He leaned in slightly, eyes glowing with amused suspicion. "Dr. Quinn. Did you just try to laxative a vampire?"
"I—It was a controlled gastrointestinal motility study, Vincent."
He laughed, the sound rich and wicked. "So yes."
"No!" I snapped. "I mean—yes—but only mildly!"
His brows lifted. "You drugged me mildly. Well, I suppose that makes it ethical."
I buried my face in the clipboard. "You volunteered for this study. And signed twenty-four consent forms."
"Didn't realize I needed to sign a bathroom waiver." He stood up. "I feel something... rumbling."
"Oh no."
"Oh yes."
Vincent's eyes sparkled with the mischief of a man who had just realized he had the upper hand and intended to milk it dry. Figuratively. Hopefully not literally.
"I need to use your bathroom."
"No! You're supposed to use the specimen chamber!" I gestured wildly toward the adjacent enclosure, prepped for a stool sample collection.
Vincent raised an eyebrow. "The one with the sterile toilet and the observation cam?"
"Standard protocol!"
He laughed again. "You expect me to take a dump on camera?"
I turned beet red. "It's for science!"
Vincent smirked, and then—dear god—winked.
"For you, I'd do anything, Doc. Even poop on camera."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't." He was already strolling toward the chamber, casual as you please. "But I think I'm growing on you."
I stared at his retreating form—inked arms, lean waist, cocky stride—and knew he was right.
This was bad.
---
Twenty minutes later, I sat at my desk, sipping cold coffee and reviewing biometric readouts while trying to erase the mental image of Vincent blowing a kiss to the lab camera before exiting the specimen chamber.
He'd done it. Proudly. With flair. With jazz hands.
I sighed and rubbed my temples. I was a professional, damn it. I'd graduated top of my class, published in six peer-reviewed journals, and had once presented a thesis in front of an ethics board that included a literal Nobel laureate.
And now I was cataloguing vampire bowel movements.
My door swung open. "Done and dusted," Vincent said, waltzing in without knocking. "And I left you a note."
I blinked. "What."
He placed a Post-it on my desk.
You owe me dinner. — V
"You're impossible."
He leaned over, bracing one hand on the edge of my desk. "Tell me something, Doc."
"What."
"Why are you so convinced I'm here because I have to be?"
I froze.
Vincent straightened, all trace of joking gone. "You look at me like I'm a problem to be solved. Like I didn't walk into this willingly."
I swallowed. "Because people like you don't just volunteer for containment."
He shrugged. "Maybe I was curious."
"About being a test subject?"
"No," he said. "About you."
My throat went dry.
Then, just as quickly, his expression turned wicked again. "Also I really enjoy messing with uptight women in lab coats. It's like a hobby."
I threw a pen at him.
He dodged easily, laughter echoing down the hall as he exited.
---
Later that Night – Observation Log (Private Note)
Dr. L. Quinn
Subject Vincent M. continues to exhibit stable vitals and high recovery rate post-Experiment 2 (digestive simulation). No negative side effects noted. Responded well to synthetic dietary variant 7-B.
Additional observation:
Subject's tattoos appear to respond to adrenaline spikes—minor luminescence recorded during verbal sparring. Will investigate further.
Note to self:
Do not let him distract you.
Do not let him wink at you.
Do not accept dinner invitations from test subjects.
Even if they have perfect teeth, sarcastic smiles, and abs that look carved from sin.
This is science. This is not flirting.
...This is definitely flirting.
End of log.
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