Page 50 of The Slug Crystal

Marco walks beside me, his profile sharp against the darkness, hands clasped behind his back in what I've come to recognize as his thinking pose.

"I thought you might need some air," he says, his voice low and measured as always, though something in it seems looser than usual.

"The others devolved into another debate about train schedules versus the airport tomorrow. "

I smile, grateful for the escape. "And you didn't want to contribute your scholarly opinion on the optimal transportation method?"

"I've found that Ben and Luca arguing about logistics is rather like watching two cats fighting over territory, entertaining but ultimately pointless to interfere with.

" His lips curve upward slightly, the moonlight catching in his eyes behind his glasses.

"Besides, I wanted to check on you. This morning was. .. intense."

Gravel crunches beneath our feet as we follow the winding path deeper into the garden.

Luca's uncle’s gardener has created something magical here.

The hedges are trimmed into perfect geometrical shapes, and they frame beds of herbs that release their fragrance as we brush past. Lemon trees stand like sentinels along the perimeter, their blossoms perfuming the night air with sweet citrus.

Fireflies blink between the branches, living constellations mirroring the stars above.

"I'm okay," I tell him, though the words feel inadequate. "Just needed to let it out, I guess. I've been holding everything in since Venice. The nap afterwards helped, too," I add with a small laugh.

Marco nods, his gaze fixed on the path ahead. "Emotional suppression is rarely sustainable. The psyche requires release valves." He pauses, then adds more softly, "I should know."

His fingers brush against mine as we walk, the contact brief but electric. I'm not sure if it's intentional or accidental, but neither of us pulls away immediately.

"You don't talk much about yourself," I observe. "Beyond academic interests, I mean."

The cicadas hum in the background, a rhythmic percussion that fills the spaces between our words.

Marco is quiet for so long, I think he might not answer, but then he sighs, the sound barely audible above the insects.

"Science is safer than people," he admits.

"Data doesn't disappoint you. It doesn't leave when your research becomes more important than dinner reservations. "

I glance at him, surprised by the hint of bitterness in his tone. "Bad breakup?"

"Several, actually." He removes his glasses, cleaning them with the edge of his shirt.

"My work has always come first. It's difficult for partners to understand why I might cancel plans because a rare specimen has been discovered, or why I might spend three days straight in a laboratory without remembering to call. "

We turn down a path lined with lavender, the scent rising around us as our legs brush against the plants. Ahead, a small pavilion emerges from the darkness, its white stone glowing in the moonlight.

"My last serious relationship ended when my ex, Elena, was her name, threw my research journal into the Arno after I missed her sister's wedding.

" He replaces his glasses, his expression rueful.

"In my defense, I was tracking the migration patterns of a particularly elusive gastropod species that only emerges during specific lunar phases. "

"Snails over weddings," I say, unable to suppress a small smile. "I can see how that might be problematic."

Marco's laugh is soft but genuine. "Yes, well.

I should have known better. The pattern repeats itself over and over.

The initial attraction, then growing frustration at my absences or distractions, and an eventual dramatic conclusion.

" He shrugs, the gesture elegant even in its resignation.

"My grandmother used to say I was married to my curiosity.

She's the one who started it all, really.

In many ways, her and I are exactly the same.

My grandfather was just much more tolerant of her… oddities."

We reach the pavilion and sit on a stone bench inside, sheltered from the night dew beginning to settle on the grass. Marco's posture relaxes slightly, his shoulders dropping from their usual perfect alignment.

"Their relationship sounds amazing. And I’m glad she fostered your curiosity," I say, imagining a younger Marco, eyes wide with wonder beneath the same stars that watch us now.

"It was. My grandfather died when I was young, then my grandmother just had my mother and I." His smile turns sad. "When she died, I was in America presenting research at a conference. I missed saying goodbye because I couldn't bear to cancel the presentation."

His confession hangs in the air between us, heavy with regret. Without thinking, I reach out and cover his hand with mine. His skin is warm despite the cooling night.

"I understand guilt," I tell him. "My mom had my whole life planned out.

A prestigious law firm, a corner office, and power suits.

Her and my father sacrificed everything to put me first and make sure I got through school.

" I swallow hard, surprised by my own willingness to share.

"Every time I take a creative risk or turn down a sensible job, I feel like I'm failing them.

Like their sacrifices were wasted on me. "

Marco turns his hand beneath mine, our palms meeting. "And yet you choose to continue to pursue your own path."

"I’ve been trying to." I laugh without much humor. "Though somehow I ended up with an enchanted ex-boyfriend-turned-snail and four men I barely knew a month ago. Not exactly the career achievement Mom was hoping for."

"Perhaps not," Marco agrees, his thumb tracing small circles against my wrist, sending tiny shivers up my arm. "But there's courage in facing the unexpected, in adapting to chaos. That's something science has taught me: adaptation is necessary for survival."

His eyes meet mine, the scholarly detachment momentarily replaced by something warmer. In this moment, he's not Professor Rossi with his academic precision and careful distance, but simply Marco. A man shaped by loss and passion and dedication.

"We'll find Sarah," I say, suddenly needing to reassure myself. "We'll fix this."

"And if we don't?" he asks, his voice gentle. "If Alex remains as he is?"

The question I've been avoiding sits between us now, impossible to ignore. "Then we adapt," I echo his words back to him. "We find a new normal."

Fireflies drift into the pavilion, their green-gold light reflecting in Marco's eyes as he studies my face. His hand still holds mine, his touch more certain now.

"I've never met anyone quite like you, Emma," he says, the admission seemingly surprised out of him. "Someone who understands that some questions don't have easy answers, but tries to find the solutions anyway. Someone who doesn't demand that I be less of what I am."

My heart beats faster at his words, combined with the intense heat of his gaze.

The night wraps around us like a cocoon, the lingering scents of lemon blossoms and lavender mingling with the earthy smell of Marco's cologne.

For a moment, we're not two people on an impossible quest, we're just a man and woman sitting in a garden, connected by shared vulnerability and growing attraction.

"We should head back," Marco says eventually, though he makes no move to stand. "Early start tomorrow."

"Just a few more minutes," I reply, not ready to break this fragile moment of connection. "The stars are too beautiful to waste."

His smile in the darkness feels like a gift, rare and precious. "As a scientist, I must agree. This particular configuration of celestial bodies deserves proper observation."

The words hang between us, but neither of us looks up to the stars.

Marco's thumb continues tracing patterns on my wrist, his touch sending tiny electrical currents up my arm.

The pavilion feels smaller, the air thicker with possibility.

I look at him, really look, at the way moonlight catches in his salt-and-pepper curls, at the surprising softness in his usually analytical eyes, at the slight part of his lips as he watches me watching him.

Without allowing myself to overthink, I lean forward, rising slightly off my seat, and press my lips against his .

Marco freezes. For one terrible second, I think I've misread everything, the shared vulnerability, the lingering touches, the intensity of his gaze, even the conversation over dinner.

Then his hand rises to cup the back of my neck, and he's kissing me back with a passion that contradicts his scholarly exterior.

His lips are surprisingly soft, moving against mine with the same precise attention he gives everything.

I taste espresso and something sweeter, like the amaretti cookies he favors.

When we part, his eyes study my face with wonder. "Is this real? Are you interested in me, truly?" he whispers, the question so earnest it makes my chest ache. "Or am I constructing an elaborate hypothesis based on insufficient data?"

I laugh softly, my fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "My interest is very real. Empirically verifiable."

"In that case," he says, his voice dropping to a register I've never heard from him before, "further investigation seems warranted."

Before I can respond, he stands, lifting me effortlessly into his arms. I let out a surprised gasp, my arms instinctively wrapping around his neck. For a man who spends most of his time in libraries and laboratories, he's surprisingly strong.

"The bench isn't suitable," he explains, carrying me deeper into the pavilion where cushioned lounge chairs are arranged for daytime visitors. "Optimal conditions are essential for accurate results."

His academic phrasing makes me smile against his neck. "Forever a scientist."