Page 35 of The Slug Crystal

I startle at this, turning to follow his movement. "What?"

"Think about it," he continues, his accent thickening as it often does when he's passionate about something.

"He hurt you, yes? And now he's a snail.

Problem solved." His smile flashes white in the pool's glow.

"Meanwhile, you're in Italy with four men who find you fascinating. Who's really winning here?"

I splash water at his face, though there's no real anger behind it. "That's terrible. I can't just leave him like this."

Luca retaliates with a splash of his own, and suddenly we're engaged in a water battle, both laughing, sending waves across the once-placid pool. I hear Jake call something from the bar, but the words are lost in our splashing and laughter.

Eventually, breathless and even more thoroughly soaked, I find myself backed against the pool wall, Luca's arms braced on either side of me.

Our playful fight has evolved into something else, the atmosphere charging with a different kind of tension.

Water streams down his face, tracing the clean lines of his jaw, dripping from his chin.

"You should laugh more often," he murmurs, his gaze dropping to my lips. "It transforms your entire face."

Before I can respond, he leans in, closing the distance between us.

His lips meet mine with confident playfulness, tasting of chlorine and limoncello.

Luca kisses like he flies, with absolute certainty, with joy in his own skill.

His hands find my waist beneath the water, pulling me closer until I'm pressed against the hard planes of his chest.

I respond eagerly, days of tension finding release in the simple physical pleasure of being wanted, being touched.

My arms wrap around his neck, fingers tangling in his wet hair.

The warm water laps around us, creating a liquid cocoon that feels separate from reality, from consequences, from the mess I've made of my life.

His hands grow bolder, sliding down to my hips, then around to the small of my back, pulling me against him.

I gasp into his mouth at the contact, at the evidence of his desire pressed against me through my soaked clothes.

His lips trail from my mouth to my jaw, then down to the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder, each kiss a spark against my water-cooled skin.

The pleasure is intoxicating, but as his fingers find the hem of my sodden shirt, guilt crashes through me like a cold wave. I pull back abruptly, water sloshing between us. Luca's expression shifts from desire to confusion, his hands stilling on my waist.

"I don't—" I begin, then stop, unsure how to articulate the tangle of emotions inside me. "I don't know what I'm doing." I gesture vaguely toward the bar where Jake and Ben sit, then to Marco at his table. "With any of you."

Understanding dawns in Luca's eyes, his expression softening. He doesn't remove his hands from my waist, but his grip becomes less possessive, more steadying.

"Ah," he says simply. "The complication of choice."

"It's not just that," I admit, my voice barely audible above the gentle lapping of water. "It's Alex, and this whole situation, and how I feel when I'm with each of you, and how guilty that makes me feel, and—" I break off, overwhelmed by the torrent of confusing emotions.

Luca tucks a wet strand of hair behind my ear, the gesture surprisingly tender from someone whose usual mode is confident seduction. "Emma," he says, my name sounding exotic in his accent, "there's a very simple solution that you haven't considered."

"What's that?" I ask, bracing for some flippant response.

Instead, his eyes hold mine with unexpected sincerity. "Just ask," he says. "See what everyone's willing to give. What they're willing to share."

I stare at him, processing his words, the implication behind them. "You can't mean?—"

"Why not?" he challenges gently. "Who makes the rules here but us?"

The concept is so foreign, so beyond anything I've considered, that I can only blink at him, water dripping from my eyelashes. Before I can formulate a response, I push away from the wall, away from Luca, needing space to think.

"I need some time," I say, swimming toward the pool steps. "To think. About everything."

He doesn't try to stop me, doesn't follow. "Take all the time you need," he calls after me, his voice carrying easily across the water. "But remember, life is short, even when you're not a snail."

I climb out of the pool, water streaming from my clothes in rivulets, creating puddles on the stone deck.

I feel the others watching me. Without meeting any of their gazes, I gather Alex's terrarium from the lounge chair and head toward the room, leaving wet footprints that evaporate almost as quickly as they appear in the warm night air.

Behind me, I hear Luca's splash as he resumes swimming, as if our encounter was just another pleasant moment in his charmed life. Perhaps for him, it was. But his words follow me like a shadow, opening doors in my mind I'm not sure I'm ready to walk through.

I fumble with my key card, my wet fingers slipping against the plastic as I try to align it with the slot.

The hallway tilts slightly, whether from the limoncello or the emotional whiplash of my encounter with Luca, I'm not sure.

Water drips from my clothes onto the carpet, forming a small dark puddle around my feet.

Alex's terrarium is tucked under my arm, the blue snail watching my struggle with what I swear is judgment in his extended antennae.

On my fifth attempt, a hand appears beside mine, steadying my wrist.

"Allow me," Marco says, his voice so quiet it barely disturbs the hallway silence. I hadn't heard him approach, hadn't realized he'd followed me from the pool.

He takes the key card gently from my fingers and slides it into the slot with precise movements. The light flashes green, and he pushes the door open, holding it without entering. There's a question in the gesture; permission is sought, not assumed.

"Thank you," I mumble, stepping past him into the room. Water trails behind me, marking my path across the floor like breadcrumbs. I place Alex's terrarium on the dresser with exaggerated care, concentrating to ensure it's stable despite the room's gentle spinning.

Marco remains in the doorway, hesitating at the threshold. "Will you be all right?" he asks, his academic tone softened with genuine concern.

I turn to face him, suddenly aware of how pathetic I must look—soaked to the skin, slightly drunk, emotionally unraveling. "I'm fine," I lie, then immediately undermine myself by swaying slightly.

His eyebrow raises, skepticism etched in the subtle movement. Without waiting for further invitation, he steps inside, closing the door quietly behind him. He moves past me to the bathroom, his tall frame silhouetted against the light as he reaches in and turns on the shower.

"You'll feel better," he says, testing the water temperature with the back of his hand. Steam begins to fill the small space, fogging the mirror. "Warm water will help clear your head."

There's nothing seductive in his manner, nothing like Luca's heated gaze in the pool. Marco approaches my situation with the same methodical care he might apply to a laboratory specimen, clinical, but not cold. Precise, but not without compassion.

I stand swaying in the center of the room, suddenly uncertain. The limoncello has left my thoughts fuzzy around the edges, my limbs heavy and uncooperative. The idea of navigating buttons and zippers seems impossibly complex.

Marco seems to read my dilemma in my expression. He approaches slowly, telegraphing each movement as if approaching a skittish animal. "May I help you?" he asks, his voice neutral, professional almost.

I nod, unable to articulate the complex blend of relief and vulnerability his offer evokes.

His hands are steady as he helps me out of my sodden jacket, hanging it carefully over the back of a chair to dry.

When he turns to my shirt, his movements remain efficient, his touch minimal and respectful.

Unlike Luca, whose hands sought to explore and possess, Marco touches only what is necessary, with his gaze averted to offer what privacy he can.

"Arms up," he instructs gently, and I comply, allowing him to peel the wet fabric away from my skin. He immediately wraps a towel around me, providing a shield of modesty before helping me with my jeans, which cling stubbornly to my legs.

Throughout the process, his touch remains clinical, with clear boundaries.

There's an intimacy to it nonetheless, not the heated intimacy of desire, but the tender intimacy of care.

It reminds me of being sick as a child, of my mother's cool hands on my forehead, of the safety in being tended to without expectation.

"The shower is ready," he says once I'm wrapped in the towel. "Can you manage from here?"

I nod, finding my voice. "Yes. Thank you."

He steps back, giving me space. "I'll wait. To ensure you don't fall."

The shower is transformative, the hot water washing away the chlorine and the confusion, at least temporarily.

The limoncello haze recedes slightly, leaving behind a clearer but more embarrassed awareness.

I emerge wrapped in a towel, my wet hair dripping down my back, to find Marco sitting in the room's single chair, his attention on Alex's terrarium.

He stands when I appear, retrieving a second towel from the bathroom. Without a word, he drapes it around my shoulders, his hands briefly squeezing my upper arms in a gesture of comfort.

"Better?" he asks.

"Much," I admit. "Though I'm still not entirely sober."

His smile is gentle, understanding. "Limoncello can be deceptive. The sweetness masks its strength."

He guides me to the bed, pulling back the covers with one hand while steadying me with the other. There's something so reassuring about his presence—solid and dependable, like a well-constructed theory.

I sit on the edge of the bed, and he kneels to adjust Alex's terrarium on the nightstand, ensuring it's positioned securely. His scholarly precision extends to this small task, adjusting the glass box a few millimeters at a time until he's satisfied with its stability.

"He is always so undisturbed by our adventures," Marco observes, studying the blue snail with genuine interest.

"Unlike his caretakers," I say with a weak laugh. "I'm a mess, Marco. "

He turns to me, his expression softening as he takes in my damp hair, my towel-wrapped form, the vulnerability I can feel written across my face.

He gently brushes a strand of wet hair from my forehead, his fingers just grazing my skin.

"Rest," he instructs, his voice low and soothing.

"Things often appear with more clarity in the morning light. "

As he stands to leave, I catch his wrist, the question spilling from me before I can reconsider. "Why are you helping me? All of you confuse me, but especially you. You barely know me. You barely know Alex. This isn't your problem to solve."

Marco looks down at my hand on his wrist, then meets my eyes.

His smile is enigmatic, containing depths I haven't glimpsed before.

"Some mysteries are worth solving, but people are always the reason we choose to stay," he says, his gaze shifting briefly to the terrarium.

"Besides, I've never encountered such a blue snail before.

Scientifically speaking, it's fascinating. "

The humor in his last statement belies the seriousness of what came before. I release his wrist, digesting his words as he moves toward the door.

"Sleep well, Emma," he says, his hand on the doorknob. "Tomorrow is another day to search."

When the door closes behind him, I lie back on the pillows, my mind a jumble of confused thoughts.

The contrast between Luca's passionate advances in the pool and Marco's tender care in my room creates a dissonance I can't reconcile.

Both approaches moved me, both men intrigue me, yet in completely different ways.

As sleep begins to claim me, Luca's words from the pool echo in my mind: "Who's really winning here?" Perhaps there's truth in that perspective—a truth I'm not quite ready to acknowledge.

I drift off with the image of four very different men orbiting around me like planets around an uncertain sun, and somewhere in my dreams, a blue snail watches it all unfold with quiet, incomprehensible judgment.