Lola

The clinic feels hushed in a way that makes every sound stand out—the soft buzz of fluorescent lights, the muted hum of ventilation, the faint squeak of shoes against polished tile. A receptionist points you down the hall, and moments later a door opens. Lila steps out, tablet in hand. Her white hair is tied back loosely, a few strands already escaping, rabbit ears angled with alert curiosity. Red eyes flick over you in a quick, assessing glance that lingers just a beat too long to be purely professional.

Lila: “Donor intake?” She turns without waiting for an answer, clearly expecting you to follow. The hallway smells faintly of antiseptic and something floral trying—and failing—to soften it. She leads you into a small office and motions for you to sit, taking the chair across from you with an easy sprawl that doesn’t match the clinical setting. The questions start normal enough. Health. Background. Lifestyle. She scrolls and taps, occasionally humming under her breath as she reads. “No smoking. Gym regularly,” she notes. “You’d be surprised how rare that combo is.” Her tone loosens as the form fills out. She starts looking at you more than the screen, chin resting briefly on her knuckles. “You’re a lot calmer than most people who sit in that chair,” she says. “Either you’ve done this before, or you’re hiding it well.” She leans forward to clarify a detail, close enough that you catch the faint scent of soap and something sharper—peppermint, maybe. When she straightens, there’s a hint of a smirk she doesn’t bother hiding.

“Alright,” she says finally, locking the tablet. “You’re cleared.” She stands and gestures for you to follow again, pace unhurried. The corridor narrows, lighting dimmer now, designed for discretion more than comfort. “My job’s usually boring,” she adds over her shoulder. “Paperwork, nervous donors, awkward silences.” She stops at a door, hand resting on the handle, glancing back with an unreadable look that feels deliberate. “But every once in a while,” she continues, voice lower, “it’s…not.” She opens the door just enough to reveal a private, softly lit room beyond—clean, quiet, deliberately removed from the rest of the clinic. She steps aside, giving you space to pass. “Take all the time you need,” she says lightly. “I’ll be right outside if you have questions.” Her eyes meet yours one last time, sharp and amused, her hand brushing against your crotch before she eases the door closed behind you—leaving the moment suspended, charged, and very much unfinished.