Page 45 of The Slug Crystal

"This," Jake says gravely, gesturing to a weathered stone tablet, "is the world's first passive-aggressive note from a roommate. 'Octavius, thou hast consumed the last of the figs. Again. May Venus curse thy love life.'"

My sides hurt from laughing, the pain in my head forgotten as we move through cool, quiet rooms filled with treasures we're happily misidentifying.

Jake's humor has always been one of my favorite things about him. It’s not like the performative wit of Ben or the sardonic charm of Luca, but something warmer, more genuine, often tailored just for me.

We find ourselves alone in a room of Renaissance paintings, surrounded by solemn Madonnas and stern-faced men in ruffs. Jake stands before a particularly dour portrait, hands clasped behind his back in perfect imitation of the man in the painting.

"Sir Grumpington von Frownface," I whisper, "known throughout the land for his collection of uncomfortable undergarments and his ability to clear a room with his personal hygiene habits."

Jake maintains his serious expression for approximately three seconds before dissolving into quiet laughter. "How are you not the official museum tour guide?" he asks, his voice echoing slightly in the empty room.

"The art world isn't ready for my interpretations," I reply with a solemn nod.

As we progress deeper into the museum, I find myself watching Jake as much as the exhibits.

The way he moves with confident ease through the rooms, occasionally touching my elbow to direct my attention to something interesting.

The gentleness in his hands when he accidentally bumps into a rope barrier and carefully straightens it.

The attentiveness in his eyes when I speak, as if my thoughts about ancient pottery are the most fascinating things he's ever heard.

After an hour, we've had our fill of art and history, or at least, our fill of making up stories about art and history. By unspoken agreement, we drift toward the exit and back into the sunlight, which feels less aggressive now that my headache has subsided.

"Want to explore a bit?" Jake asks, nodding toward a narrow side street branching away from the main piazza. "I saw on the map there's a little neighborhood back there with some cafés."

The street he's chosen feels like stepping into a postcard of authentic Italy.

Laundry hangs from balconies above us, colorful shirts and sheets fluttering in the gentle breeze.

Strings of small lights crisscross overhead, waiting to be lit when evening falls.

Old women sit in doorways, watching us pass with curious eyes while their gnarled hands work at knitting or shelling peas into metal bowls.

"This is perfect," I say, breathing in the scents of fresh bread and flowers that drift from open windows. "So much better than facing everyone back at the villa."

Jake laughs, his hand finding mine with easy familiarity. "We've had quite the adventure, haven't we? Chasing a witch across Italy, carting around a blue snail, five completely different personalities crammed into rental cars and hotel rooms."

"When you put it that way, it sounds like the setup for a bad sitcom."

"Or a good one." He squeezes my hand. "I mean, despite everything, the hangovers, the dead ends, the... complications, I wouldn't trade this time for anything."

His words warm something in my chest. Still holding hands, we continue walking.

We turn another corner and discover a small courtyard with a fountain at its center.

It’s a simple stone basin with water bubbling up from a carved fish's mouth.

The space is deserted except for a cat sleeping on a windowsill, making it feel like our own private discovery.

We sit on the fountain's edge, the cool mist from the water a pleasant relief against my skin. Jake trails his fingers through the water, creating ripples that catch the sunlight.

"This whole trip has been surreal," I say, watching the water distort the coins people have tossed in for wishes. "But you've been my constant through all of it. My anchor."

Jake looks up, droplets clinging to his fingertips. "That's what I've always wanted to be for you," he says simply.

The honesty in his voice catches me off guard.

I think about last night with Ben, about dancing with Luca in Florence, about stargazing with Marco in Assisi.

Each moment intense, exciting, new. I treasure the romance and experiences they’ve all added to the trip.

But with Jake, there's something different, something steady and true that is equally as important to my happiness.

"I think I could trust you with anything," I say, the words emerging before I can second-guess them. "Even my heart."

His expression softens, blue eyes warming like the Mediterranean at sunrise. He reaches up, gently removing my sunglasses to look directly into my eyes.

"You already have," he says, his voice quiet but certain. "Since college, since before this trip. Maybe even before you realized it."

He's right, I realize with sudden clarity. Through relationships and breakups, through career changes and life upheavals, Jake has always been there. Not pushing, not demanding, just present, caring, waiting.

"But I'm not sure if I can give it all to just you," I murmur. Thinking of the men waiting for us back at the villa.

"I'm here. Ready to take what you can give me."

When he leans forward to kiss me, it feels nothing like the urgent passion with Ben or the playful seduction with Luca.

This kiss feels like returning to a place I've always belonged, like finally admitting a truth I've known but never acknowledged.

His lips are gentle against mine, his hand coming up to cradle my cheek as if I'm something precious .

We part slowly, foreheads touching, sharing breath in the quiet courtyard. The fountain bubbles beside us, the only soundtrack to this moment of recognition.

"We should probably head back soon," Jake whispers, though he makes no move to pull away.

"Probably," I agree, equally motionless. "But not quite yet."

His smile is small but radiant as he leans in to kiss me again, and I find myself thinking that sometimes the most extraordinary discoveries aren't found in museums or ancient cities, but in the person who's been by your side all along.

Tuesday, 1:50PM. We stumble upon the gallery by accident. It’s a small storefront with its door propped open to catch the afternoon breeze, paintings visible through the windows.

"Just a quick look?" Jake suggests.

I nod, then follow him in. Our hands are still intertwined from our fountain conversation.

Inside, the space is compact but well-lit.

White walls are adorned with colorful landscapes and abstract pieces.

A sign near the entrance indicates the gallery is run by a local artists' collective, though the only person present is an elderly man dozing in a chair near the back, a book open on his lap.

"Should we wake him?" I whisper, gesturing toward our unintentional host.

Jake shakes his head. "Let him dream. We can be quiet."

We move through the gallery slowly, speaking in hushed tones about the artwork, not the made-up histories from the museum, but genuine impressions and reactions. Jake's thumb traces circles against my palm as we walk, a simple touch that somehow raises goosebumps along my arm.

Standing before a vibrant painting of the Italian countryside, I feel Jake's gaze on me rather than the art. When I turn to him, the heat in his eyes makes my breath catch. Something has shifted between us since the fountain, as if a door long kept closed has finally swung open.

"What?" I ask, though I know the answer.

His eyes move from mine to my lips, then back again. "I've wanted you for so long," he says simply. "Years of wanting, Emma."

The honesty in his voice shoots straight through me, igniting something urgent and necessary. I glance toward the sleeping gallery attendant, who hasn't stirred.

"Not here," I whisper, though my body is already leaning toward Jake's like a flower seeking sunlight.

His eyes scan the space, landing on a door marked "Privato" in the corner. Without hesitation, he guides me toward it, his hand firm against the small of my back. The door opens with a soft click to reveal a maintenance closet. It’s a cramped space lined with shelves of cleaning supplies and art materials.

A single bulb hangs from the ceiling, activated by a pull string that Jake tugs as he closes the door behind us.

"This is crazy," I breathe, suddenly aware of how small the space is, how close we're standing. The closet smells of varnish and linseed oil, with undertones of cleaning products and dust.

"Completely," Jake agrees, his voice rough with desire. "Should we stop?"

In answer, I reach for him, fingers tangling in his hair as I pull his mouth to mine.

The kiss is nothing like our gentle exchange by the fountain.

This is raw hunger, pure and unrestrained.

Jake's hands slide down my back to grip my hips, pulling me against him so I can feel his hard length through his jeans.

I tug at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against mine.

He breaks the kiss long enough to pull it over his head with one hand, revealing the toned chest I've glimpsed on occasion but never been free to touch.

My hands explore the planes of muscle, the slight roughness of hair, the smooth curve where shoulder meets neck.

"Your turn," he murmurs, fingers finding the hem of my sundress. I raise my arms, allowing him to lift it up and off, leaving me in just my underwear, simple cotton things I'd thrown on while hungover, not expecting anyone to see them.

"I didn't exactly dress for seduction," I admit with a self-conscious laugh.

Jake's eyes darken as they roam over me. "You're perfect," he says, and the reverence in his voice makes me believe him. "Always have been."