Page 42 of The Slug Crystal

At the end of the hall, he nudges open a door with his shoulder.

The bedroom that unfolds feels like a dream: high ceilings with pale timber beams, walls washed in creamy white, a four-poster bed draped in linen that stirs gently in the breeze from the open windows.

The floor is tiled in soft terracotta, cool against my sandals.

Through an archway, I glimpse an attached bathroom, all marble and brass, a clawfoot tub gleaming like a pearl.

“This one suits you,” Luca says, placing my bag carefully on the carved dresser, his accent curling around each word.

I drop to my knees in front of the bag, digging through the mess I crammed in days ago.

The turquoise shimmer of the pool outside is lodged in my mind, calling to me, and I need my new swimsuit.

My fingers shove past wrinkled shirts, jeans, and the sweater I used to wrap Alex’s terrarium earlier on the journey.

The bed creaks behind me. I glance over my shoulder to find Luca stretched across the mattress like he owns it, one arm tucked behind his head, the other draped lazily across his chest. His storm-blue eyes are heavy-lidded, following the curve of my back, the tilt of my hips, every shift as I rummage.

I pause, heat prickling my cheeks. “Out.” I gesture toward the door.

His mouth curves in a slow, wicked smile. “Why would I leave? I don’t mind watching.” His voice is velvet wrapped in smoke, that Italian lilt making the words sound far more dangerous than playful.

My hand stills on the zipper. “You’re impossible.”

“Then let me be impossible,” he murmurs, levering himself up on one elbow. That gaze of his doesn’t waver, like he’s daring me.

A war sparks inside me—common sense and pride against the sudden ache low in my stomach. Finally, I exhale and turn to face him. “Fine. But only look. No touching.”

His breath leaves him in a ragged groan, head tipping back. “Dio mio, stella,” he says, voice thick with hunger. “You’ll kill me.”

Slowly, deliberately, I peel out of my clothes.

The air in the room thickens, heavy with his attention.

I slip the bikini top over my shoulders, tie the strings behind my neck; his eyes track the movement as if memorizing every knot.

When I shimmy into the bottoms, the silence breaks with another strangled sound from him.

I straighten at last, smoothing the straps against my hips. He’s propped up now, jaw clenched, chest rising too quickly. “ You’re a tease,” he growls, accent roughened, almost guttural.

I let a smile curl my lips, toss my towel over my shoulder. “You knew the rules. Let’s go down to the pool.”

He drags a hand over his face like a man half-destroyed. “Go without me, amore,” he says hoarsely. “I need… a minute.”

My laugh rings sharp and smug as I step toward the door, leaving him sprawled on the bed, undone. His groan follows me into the hallway, sweet as victory.

By the time I step outside, the garden hums with laughter.

Ben is still in the water, swimming with wild abandon while Jake scolds him from the pool’s edge.

Marco sits in the shade, book in one hand, keeping Alex’s terrarium balanced safely on the table beside him.

I shed my towel, climb the stone steps, and slip into the pool.

The water closes over my shoulders in a cool, silken embrace, sunlight breaking into prisms around me.

“Catch,” Jake yells, and tosses a floaty in my direction.

I reach up into the air, failing to grab the inflated circle and swatting it away by accident.

Laughing, I chase after it, then wriggle my way over the side until I’m comfortably settled.

The pastel donut raft cradles my body like a lover, the sun-warmed water lapping at my dangling fingertips as I drift across the turquoise pool.

Luca's uncle, it turns out, keeps an impressive collection of pool toys in the garden shed. There’s everything from this ridiculous inflatable pastry I'm floating on to foam noodles in every imaginable color.

After weeks of chasing leads across Italy, this afternoon feels stolen, a breath between heartbeats. Jake was right, we needed this. I close my eyes against the brilliant blue sky, letting the gentle rocking of the water wash away the ache of disappointment that's become my constant companion.

"Alex appears to be enjoying the change of scenery," Marco calls from his perch on a lounge chair, gesturing toward the small table we've set up in the shade of a striped umbrella.

I lift my head just enough to see the terrarium glinting in the dappled light.

Jake kneels beside it, meticulously arranging fresh lettuce leaves into what looks suspiciously like a smiley face.

His brow furrows with concentration, treating this simple task with the same careful attention he gives everything.

When he catches me watching, his cheeks color slightly, but he doesn't stop his work.

"Ensuring proper nutrition is essential," he explains, straightening up. "I found some dandelion greens this morning, too. They're supposed to be good for calcium."

The tenderness in his voice makes my chest tighten. After everything, Jake remains steady, and reliable, caring for a snail with the same dedication he's always shown me.

"I don't think snails have preferences about how their food is arranged," Ben teases, emerging from the water with a graceful push, water streaming from his muscular, broad shoulders. "But points for artistic effort, man."

Before Jake can respond, Luca appears in the doorway in his swim trunks. I fight the need to check if there is a string of drool dripping from my lip at his muscular body on display. This is not the first time I’ve seen Luca shirtless, but his body is no less impressive with time.

He walks forward and performs a flawless dive into the water, swimming the length of the pool to surface beside Ben.

He slicks back his dark hair with a practiced motion that wouldn't look out of place in a cologne advertisement.

"Should we continue this competition or concede that my last dive was clearly superior? "

"Superior?" Ben scoffs, water droplets clinging to his eyelashes like tiny crystals. "That wasn't even a proper cannonball. That was... what would you call it, Marco?"

Marco sighs from his chair, lowering his book with reluctant amusement. "If I must serve as official judge, I would classify Luca's last attempt as a 'semi-tucked rotation with moderate splash effect.' Technical merit: seven point five. Artistic impression: six point eight."

"See?" Ben crows triumphantly. "The professor has spoken.

Now watch a real cannonball." He hauls himself out of the pool in one fluid motion, muscles working beneath sun-bronzed skin.

I find my gaze lingering on the way water traces paths down his back, collecting in the dimples just above his swim trunks before soaking into the fabric.

"Emma!" Luca calls, breaking my reverie. "You should be a judge too. Ben claims I'm biased."

"You are absolutely biased," Marco confirms without looking up from his book. “You are one-half of the competitors.”

I laugh, paddling my donut raft toward the edge of the pool. "I'm perfectly comfortable as a spectator, thanks."

Ben stands at the pool's edge now, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet.

"Watch and learn, amateurs." He launches himself upward with surprising grace for someone his size, tucking his knees to his chest mid-air and wrapping his arms around them.

His splash is magnificent—a geyser of turquoise that catches the sunlight, momentarily transforming the water into a shower of diamonds.

The wave rocks my raft pleasantly, sending me drifting in lazy circles.

Luca is next, determined to outdo Ben. He opts for height over form, backing up several steps before running and leaping into the air with an Italian battle cry that makes Marco wince.

The resulting splash reaches Jake, who accepts his soaking with resigned dignity.

Marco is eventually coaxed from his chair, tugging off his sweater and shucking his jeans with an absent sort of efficiency.

My breath catches. Beneath all that professorial layering is a body that doesn’t belong to the library stacks.

Lean, muscular lines, every movement deliberate, his fitted boxer briefs clinging in ways that make my pulse trip.

He doesn’t grandstand the way Ben does, doesn’t preen like Luca.

He just peels down to the essentials, then strides to the pool’s edge.

His dive is surprisingly elegant, a clean entry with barely a ripple, which has Ben booing good-naturedly from across the pool.

Jake follows with a cannonball that is methodical, effective, and somehow exactly what I would expect from him.

They continue their contest, each jump becoming more elaborate than the last. Ben attempts a mid-air spin that ends with him belly-flopping painfully.

Luca tries to perform what he claims is an "Olympic dive," but mainly succeeds in splashing water onto Alex's table, prompting Jake to move the terrarium to safer ground.

Marco demonstrates a perfect jackknife that earns reluctant applause from the others.

The warm Italian sun soaks into my skin, chasing away the chill of uncertainty that's followed me since Venice. The air smells of chlorine, sunscreen, and the sweet citrus of the lemon trees that line the garden walls. From somewhere in the villa, music drifts out. Luca must have put it on before he joined us. It’s an Italian song I don't recognize but instantly love for its carefree rhythm.

It strikes me suddenly how domestic this scene is—five near-strangers and a snail who was once a man, forming an odd family unit around a pool in Italy.

I'm suspended between them all, floating on a ridiculous donut, watching their orbits intersect and diverge, wondering how we arrived at this strange equilibrium.