Vincent's POV
"Why do I feel like you're about to inflict pain on me in the name of science?" I asked, eyeing the massage table in the center of the lab. That was a new addition. And padded. Suspiciously padded.
Dr. Lyra Quinn gave me one of those smiles. The kind that said I'm perfectly innocent while she rolled up a sleeve and revealed her latest weapon: a bottle of liniment oil labeled with a skull and crossbones. Dramatic branding, even for her.
"It's not pain," she said brightly. "It's... controlled microtrauma. For data."
"Oh. Well, when you put it that way." I muttered, already unbuttoning my shirt. I'd learned not to argue. Or at least not too much. It usually ended with needles or probes.
Lyra's gaze flicked upward—just briefly—as I shrugged off the shirt, revealing the black ink across my chest and arms. The tattoos always got a second glance. Especially the phoenix curling around my ribs. She still hadn't asked what they meant.
"You know," she said, not looking at me now, "this test requires post-exercise data. So you'll need to be… physically exhausted."
"Be honest, you've just been waiting for a reason to run me ragged."
She smirked. "You've figured me out."
I stepped onto the treadmill she pointed to. It was pre-set, naturally. No mercy in sight. The screen flashed a goal: 45 minutes, incline 8, interval sprints.
"Wow. A gentle warm-up," I deadpanned.
"You'll survive."
That was debatable. But by minute twenty, I was glistening with sweat, my muscles screaming, and Lyra—of course—was casually typing away at her desk, sipping iced coffee, pretending not to watch me die.
Every time I glanced over, she was doing something infuriatingly attractive—chewing her pen cap, scribbling notes, crossing and uncrossing her legs. I hated how observant I'd become.
After the treadmill, she had me do reps of weighted squats, curls, and push-ups. I groaned halfway through, collapsing on the mat like a defeated gladiator.
"I think I saw the light," I wheezed.
Lyra finally came over, crouching beside me, holding a tablet. "Did it look like data? Because we're not done."
"I'm going to start charging per drop of sweat."
"Good. I'll log it under 'liquid assets.'"
I groaned louder. "That pun deserves actual punishment."
"Oh, you're about to be punished," she said, then paused. Her eyes widened slightly. "I mean. Medically. Therapeutically."
Too late. My eyebrow was already up.
Lyra's POV
He knew. Of course he knew. The minute I slipped on gloves and unscrewed the cap of the muscle recovery oil—lavender, menthol, and a touch of vampire-safe synthetic eucalyptus—his smirk deepened.
I hated how well he could read me. I wasn't flirting. This was science. It just so happened that science involved rubbing oil into the taut, sweat-slicked muscles of a shirtless vampire with tattoos and a permanent bedroom voice.
"This is for inflammation," I said, trying to sound professional. "If your muscles don't recover properly, it'll throw off the baseline data."
"Say no more, Doc," Vincent said, laying facedown on the padded table. "Treat me like your science experiment."
"You are my science experiment."
He chuckled into the mat. "Lucky me."
I rolled my eyes and pressed my hands to his shoulders.
Big mistake.
The heat of his skin. The way every line of his back shifted with breath. The ink across his shoulders—script in old French I still hadn't deciphered—was like a challenge.
Focus, Lyra.
My fingers worked over the tension in his traps, trying to ignore the way his low groan of relief set off something traitorous in my stomach.
"Doesn't hurt?" I asked, keeping my voice cool.
"Nope. Keep going. This is... strictly professional, right?"
"Obviously."
He snorted. "Then why are your hands shaking?"
I froze. Dammit.
"They're not."
"Liar."
I went for revenge. Digging my thumb into a particularly tight knot in his lower back.
"Ah—! Okay, okay," he hissed. "I take it back. They're very steady. Brutal. But steady."
I huffed a laugh. "Good. Now roll over."
Vincent turned, propping himself up slightly. His chest rose and fell with post-workout fatigue, but his grin hadn't faded.
"You going to oil my abs next?"
"Only if you want to skew your recovery data."
"Wouldn't dream of it," he murmured, eyes locked on mine.
I started working on his arms, my fingers brushing his forearms, noting the twitch of his muscles under my touch. Neither of us spoke for a few moments. The tension shifted—less teasing, more... something else.
Comfortable. Heated. Unspoken.
Then Vincent broke it.
"You know, Lyra," he said softly, "if you ever wanted to touch me without needing a scientific excuse... I wouldn't complain."
I paused, staring down at him. "That's not very professional."
"Neither is checking out my tattoos every time I take my shirt off."
"I do not—!"
He just smiled, leaning back.
Touché.
Vincent's POV
When the test was over, I felt looser, lighter. Not just from the massage.
Her hands on me? That was... dangerous. Not because I didn't like it. But because I liked it too much.
She was cracking, slowly. Test by test. Word by word. And I was all too willing to keep turning up the heat.
Besides, I wasn't here for blood. Not anymore.
I was here for her.
And something told me—science be damned—that the next experiment might just break the lab rules entirely.
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