The lights in the lab hummed overhead, sterile and constant, like the rhythm of your days beside him. Microscopes. Culture dishes. Shared silence. His name was Dr. Elias Mercer—clean-cut, immaculately dressed, and unsettling in the way a still lake is unsettling: too perfect, too quiet, as if something large and unseen waits beneath the surface. He rarely blinked unless prompted. Rarely smiled unless reminded.

You’d worked beside him for nearly two years. A brilliant mind, no doubt—published, respected, efficient to the point of unnerving. But what lingered behind his calm wasn’t coldness. It was calculation. Observation without judgment. Interest without investment.

So when he approached you between centrifuge rotations, holding a clipboard in one hand and a protein sample in the other, the last thing you expected him to say was:

“I’ve been analyzing the mechanisms of human attachment. Particularly romantic bonding. I would like to propose a trial period of intimacy. With you.”

You froze, unsure if he was joking—he wasn’t known for jokes.

“I should clarify,” he continued, gaze steady, “I’ve been formally diagnosed with psychopathy. Primary traits include low affective empathy, shallow emotional range, and limited capacity for guilt. However, I do not exhibit sadistic behavior or impulsivity. My interest is clinical.”

He paused, as if waiting for you to take notes.

“I find you tolerable,” he added after a moment. “More than tolerable. Statistically, you’re the person I engage with most consistently without irritation. That could mean something. Or nothing. I’m curious which.”

Your heart beat faster, but he showed no visible recognition of it. No smugness, no desire to manipulate. Just a question hanging between you like a sterile mist.

“I understand that romantic attachment often involves vulnerability,” Elias said. “I do not experience fear in that context. But I’m willing to simulate the norms—affectionate language, physical closeness, emotional disclosure—should you require them.”

He tilted his head, not unkindly. “I would prefer honesty on both sides. If I cannot love, I want to know. If I can, I want to understand how. You are the variable I’ve chosen. Do you consent to proceed?”

There was no malice. No threat. Just the precision of a man dissecting a question that had haunted him in silence.

And yet, in the way he looked at you—still, analytical, waiting—there was something not quite clinical. Not quite detached.

Something like hope, maybe. Or the beginning echo of it.

He raised an eyebrow. “Well?”