POV: Dr. Lyra Quinn
---
Vincent stared at the tray in front of him like it was a puzzle designed by a particularly sadistic game master. Which, to be fair, was kind of the point.
"Laid out before you," I said, gesturing like a fancy maître d', "are twelve carefully selected flavor profiles representing the most complex combinations in modern culinary science."
"Quinn," he deadpanned, "that is a cupcake. And that is a pickle. And I'm pretty sure that's a chicken nugget."
"A free-range, hormone-free nugget," I corrected, lifting my tablet to begin documenting. "We're testing your ability to distinguish layered flavors beyond synthetic blood. This is crucial for integration studies, remember?"
Vincent's brows twitched in amusement. "Integration studies or your excuse to feed me things and observe how I chew?"
"Can't it be both?" I asked sweetly, then regretted it when his smirk turned downright dangerous.
His long fingers reached for the mini cupcake first, swirling with lavender icing and a suspicious glint of silver edible glitter. He took a delicate bite and chewed slowly, his brows furrowing. "That's... floral. Sweet. But also like I just licked a garden witch's perfume cabinet."
I suppressed a snort and scribbled notes. "Lavender with a hint of sage. Sensory response?"
He licked the icing from his thumb—slowly, deliberately—and made a satisfied hum that was entirely inappropriate for a sterile lab environment. "Pleasant. Calming. Might give me weird dreams."
I adjusted my glasses and pretended the heat in my cheeks was from the ambient lab temperature, which was scientifically unlikely.
He moved on, picking up the nugget and biting into it with the focus of a sommelier judging aged wine. "Salty. Slight grease aftertaste. Meat is... chicken?"
I blinked. "You say that like it's a question."
"Been a few decades. Chicken changes." He tapped his tongue thoughtfully against his teeth. "You put cayenne in the breading?"
"Correct." I beamed. "Spice tolerance is next week, but I wanted to get baseline data."
"Uh-huh. Totally not because you enjoy watching me sweat." His voice dropped, teasing. "Is that lab coat hiding a sadist?"
I choked on my coffee and absolutely did not squeak. "You'll find I'm a professional, thank you very much."
Vincent tilted his head, watching me with those glinting, pale eyes that caught every nervous tick. "Mm. Professional. So, the pickle?"
"Please don't say it like that."
He grinned—fangs just barely peeking out—and popped the pickle into his mouth with a crunch. "Mm. Tangy. Sharp. Like biting into sass."
I raised a brow. "Is that a flavor note or a metaphor?"
"Depends." He leaned forward slightly, elbow on the table, posture loose. "Are you going to write 'sass' in your little tablet?"
I very pointedly wrote acetic bite with sour base and not tastes like attitude and danger.
We worked our way down the line: goat cheese-stuffed peppers, chocolate with chili, sour candy, citrus zest jelly, smoked salmon mousse. Each item got the full Vincent commentary treatment.
"So this one," he said, holding up a small glass of layered dessert, "looks like a trifle, but smells like someone dared a bartender to make a dessert shot out of regret."
"That's mango chutney layered with dark chocolate and chili caramel. It's a modern twist."
He took a bite, paused mid-chew, and tilted his head. "Are you mad at me?"
"I'm studying taste complexity," I insisted, watching him grimace through the swallow. "Besides, you said you wanted to experience the human palate again."
"Yeah, but I thought we'd start with fries."
Vincent's charm wasn't subtle—it was all slow smiles and narrowed gazes, smirks that hinted at things I refused to acknowledge on a professional level. But between the funny commentary and the rare moments of real curiosity—like when he bit into the citrus jelly and went, "Whoa" like a surprised kid—I found myself laughing more than writing.
"Okay," he said, wiping his mouth with the corner of a napkin I handed him. "Real talk. Why all this effort?"
I blinked. "What do you mean?"
"You're a leading genetic researcher. You've published on everything from vampire-human cellular fusion to synthetic nutritional coding. But here you are, watching me eat pickles and cupcakes."
I shrugged, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he was across the table. "Because... the science matters. Reintroducing vampires into mainstream society means understanding how your biology interacts with the world. Taste perception is a fundamental part of identity and experience."
He leaned back, studying me with unnerving softness. "So it's not about the food. It's about feeling human again."
That made me pause. "You are human, Vincent."
He gave a short, humorless laugh. "Tell that to the mirror I don't reflect in."
"That's a myth," I said automatically.
He smirked. "Still doesn't show up on phone selfies."
I opened my mouth to answer, but something in his gaze stopped me.
"I volunteered for this," he said suddenly. "You know that, right?"
"I—yes, but I assumed there were incentives." I fidgeted. "Like the stipend. Or the new blood blend access—"
He shook his head. "I came because you were heading the project."
The room went quiet, save for the hum of the overhead fluorescents.
"Me?" I asked, stupidly.
Vincent stood, tray forgotten, and walked around the table to stand beside me. Not touching, but close enough that the air shifted.
"You've been studying us for years," he said, voice lower now. "Not with fear. Not with suspicion. With fascination. Respect. You're the first human who didn't flinch when I showed my fangs."
I glanced up at him, meeting his gaze. "They're medically fascinating. Perfect symmetry, impressive enamel strength—"
He chuckled, warm and quiet. "Quinn, if I kissed you right now, would you call that a... taste test?"
My jaw dropped. "That is wildly inappropriate."
"But scientifically intriguing?"
I smacked his arm with my tablet.
He laughed and stepped back, grinning. "Noted. No kissing without a consent form."
"I will absolutely make you sign one if you try again."
He winked. "Then I look forward to the paperwork."
---