POV: Dr. Lyra Quinn
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I should've known today would be trouble when my coffee machine exploded.
I blinked at the charred countertop, then at the burnt remains of my caffeine lifeline, before sighing and accepting my fate. No coffee. No sanity. Just oxytocin levels, a vampire with a smirk too smug for someone technically in a containment facility, and a clipboard filled with protocols I definitely did not emotionally blackmail the ethics committee into approving.
I was going to die here. Not of blood loss. Not of vampire violence.
I was going to die of sexual frustration and secondhand embarrassment.
"Doctor Quinn," Vincent's voice purred as he stretched across the containment couch—my custom-made, faux leather, clinically-approved observation couch—like a damn centerfold for Forbidden Science Monthly. "You look tense. Is it the new test? Or is it me?"
"It's the test," I deadpanned, ignoring the way his fitted black T-shirt stretched dangerously over those stupidly sculpted abs. "Today, we're measuring oxytocin fluctuations during physical touch, emotional bonding, and shared vulnerability exercises."
He raised an eyebrow. "So… cuddles?"
"Scientific cuddles," I clarified, holding up the clipboard like a priest with a Bible. "There will be nothing erotic about it."
Vincent smiled. Slowly. "Doctor… I am literally designed to make things erotic."
I inhaled through my nose and reminded myself that jail time would interrupt my research grant.
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First Observation: Nonsexual Touch
(Goal: Induce oxytocin through casual, platonic touch.)
I started simple. A firm, two-second handshake.
Vincent took my hand like he was proposing marriage. His grip was warm, his thumb brushed across the top of my hand in slow, maddening circles, and—oh, look, my pulse was spiking. Great.
"Your heart's racing, Doctor," he noted, tilting his head. "Are you recording my oxytocin or yours?"
"Yours," I snapped, withdrawing like I'd touched a stove. "Now, onto back pats."
He stood. Towered, actually.
I hesitated.
"I promise not to bite," he murmured, then leaned down, adding in a whisper, "unless you put that on the checklist."
I slapped him gently on the back. Once. Twice.
He moaned.
I froze. "What was that?"
"Sorry," he said with a completely unrepentant grin. "You have very… assertive hands."
"Vincent."
"Yes, Doctor?"
"I will sedate you."
"Promise?"
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Second Observation: Shared Emotional Experience
(Goal: Trigger oxytocin release through storytelling and empathy.)
I thought this part would be safe. I made us both sit cross-legged on the floor with neutral lighting and a camera running. I even prepared a list of harmless prompts.
"Tell me a memory that makes you feel safe," I read aloud.
Vincent leaned back on his hands and stared at the ceiling, thoughtful. "There was a woman. Human. Years ago. She used to hum when she cooked—no melody, just… soft noise. It reminded me I was welcome in her home, even if I was something unnatural."
Oh. Well now I wanted to cry.
"That's…" I cleared my throat. "That's a valid emotional memory. Thank you."
He turned his gaze to me, voice softer than I'd ever heard it. "Your turn."
"I—" My voice wavered. "My dad used to fix broken things around the house. Even if it was a cracked mug. He'd say, 'Just because something's chipped doesn't mean it's worthless.'"
Silence fell between us. Not awkward. Not clinical. Just… human.
Vincent's eyes lingered on my face for a moment too long. "You're not chipped, Lyra. But if you ever are, I'll hold the pieces together."
I scribbled a note:
Observation 2: Oxytocin spike confirmed. Also, I am not okay.
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Third Observation: Prolonged Eye Contact
(Goal: Create a bond via nonverbal communication.)
"Just look at each other for four minutes," I explained. "No talking. Just eye contact."
"Sounds like foreplay."
"Scientific foreplay," I muttered under my breath.
We sat on opposite sides of the couch. Timer set. Eyes locked.
One minute in: his pupils dilated. Noted.
Two minutes: I swallowed. His eyes dropped to my lips. Noted.
Three minutes: I forgot what air was.
Four minutes: We both leaned in at the same time.
"Time's up!" I yelped, shooting off the couch like it was electrified.
He chuckled. "Did we bond, Doctor?"
I chucked my clipboard at his smug face.
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Fourth Observation: Hugging.
(Specifically: full-body, frontal contact. 20 seconds. Kill me.)
He opened his arms. I hesitated.
"I won't bite," he said again.
I stepped into his arms. His scent hit first—something warm, woodsy, and criminally comforting. His arms wrapped around me slowly, like I was breakable. Like I was something he wanted to protect.
I did not melt. I did not sigh.
Okay. I did both.
"You're trembling," he whispered into my hair.
"No, I'm vibrating with rage."
He laughed. The sound rumbled through his chest—and straight through mine. I made the mistake of looking up. Our faces were inches apart.
"Lyra," he murmured, and that was it. My brain went static.
I pushed away before I did something truly unscientific, like kiss him or beg for his number.
---
Later that night, I reviewed the data in my office.
Vincent's oxytocin levels had spiked. So had mine.
I also discovered a note scrawled at the bottom of his observation sheet.
Doctor Quinn, if this is science, I'll happily be your test subject forever. Just say the word. P.S. Your heartbeat gives you away every time.
I stared at it. Laughed. Then groaned.
I was doomed.
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