Page 53 of The Slug Crystal
His eyes meet mine again, and something electric passesbetween us. "Even with your growing entourage of Italian admirers?"
I laugh, the sound softer than I intend. "Luca's just being Luca. And Marco's main interest is studying Alex's shell pigmentation."
"And Ben?" Jake asks, an edge of something, not quite jealousy, but close, in his voice.
I think about the hot tub, about Ben's hands and mouth, and feel heat rise to my cheeks. "Ben is... complicated. And American"
Jake nods slowly, accepting this without pushing further. A comfortable silence settles between us, punctuated only by the distant sounds of Venice at night, our neighboring hotel room, and Ben's rhythmic snoring.
Then Jake reaches across the gap between us, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from my face. The touch is feather-light but sends electricity dancing across my skin. His hand lingers, warm against my cheek.
"I've wanted to do this for years," he admits, voice barely above a whisper. "Touch you like this. Tell you how I feel."
My heart hammers against my ribs, a wild, unsteady rhythm. I should pull away. I should maintain the boundary that's kept our friendship safe for so long. But I don't move, caught in the gravity of his gaze, of his touch, of the years of unspoken feelings suddenly crystallizing between us.
"Jake," I whisper, not sure if it's a question or a warning or a plea.
He leans across the narrow space between us, slow enough that I could pull away if I wanted to. I don't. His lips find mine, soft and questioning at first, then more certain as I respond. The kiss deepens, his hand cupping my face with a tenderness that makes my chest ache. He tastes like toothpaste and the faint sweetness of the wine from earlier, familiar and new all at once.
My hand finds his shoulder, fingers curling into the fabricof his t-shirt, anchoring myself as the world seems to tilt around us. This is Jake, my best friend, my constant, my safe harbor. Kissing him feels like coming home and embarking on a dangerous adventure simultaneously.
The kiss intensifies, years of unspoken feelings pouring into it. Jake’s thumb traces my cheekbone, gentle despite the growing urgency of his mouth on mine. I feel myself responding, leaning closer, the bed creaking beneath my shifted weight.
Then fear flashes through me like lightning, sudden and searing. I pull back, breaking the kiss, my breathing uneven.
"Emma?" Jake's voice is husky, his eyes questioning.
"I can't lose you, Jake," I whisper, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. "You're my best friend. What if this ruins everything?"
His expression softens, understanding replacing confusion. "You're not going to lose me," he says, reaching for my hand. "No matter what happens."
"You don't know that," I insist, the fear in my chest expanding. "What if we try this and it falls apart? What if we can't go back to being friends? I can't—" My voice catches. "I need you in my life. I can't risk that."
Jake starts to respond, his eyes earnest, but I turn away, my gaze falling on Alex's terrarium. "We should sleep," I say, the abrupt subject change clumsy but necessary. "Long day tomorrow. Florence and all that."
I sense Jake's disappointment, but he doesn't push. "Okay," he says simply, squeezing my hand once before letting go. "Goodnight, Emma."
"Goodnight," I echo, retreating to my side of the narrow bed.
Jake's breathing eventually evens out into sleep, but I lie awake, my fingers touching my lips where I can still feel the pressure of his kiss.
What is wrong with me? I've kissed Ben without a secondthought, felt attraction to Luca without questioning it, but with Jake—with Jake, everything feels weightier, more consequential. The stakes are infinitely higher. The others could walk away tomorrow, and it would hurt, but I'd survive. Losing Jake would be like losing a limb, a vital organ.
In the darkness, Alex's shell gleams faintly blue, a reminder of how one impulsive decision can change everything. I made Alex a snail because I was hurt and angry. What might I do to Jake, to us, if things went wrong?
The thought keeps me awake for a long time, my mind tracing the same circular path, like a snail, leaving a silvery trail of doubt across my heart.
13THE WRONG TRAIN TO THE RIGHT PLACE
Friday,8:17AM. The Florence-bound train's polished interior welcomes us like a shiny candy wrapper, all gleaming surfaces and the faint scent of cleaning products. I shuffle down the narrow corridor, Alex's terrarium clutched against my chest like a shield, hyperaware of Jake following close behind me. The memory of last night's kiss hovers between us, unacknowledged but impossible to forget. His hair is still slightly rumpled from sleep, and when he catches me looking, his clear blue eyes quickly dart away.
"Here we are," Ben announces, sliding open the compartment door and gesturing with exaggerated formality. "Your chariot to Florence awaits."
The compartment is small but private, with two facing bench seats upholstered in navy blue fabric, a wooden table settled in the center, and a large window framing the Venetian landscape as it prepares to slip away. I settle into a window seat, placing Alex's terrarium carefully on my lap. Jake hesitates for a fraction of a second before taking the spot beside me, leaving just enough space between us that we're not touching.
"Everyone settled?" Marco asks, ducking his head into thecompartment. His dark curls brush against the doorframe, and his hazel eyes, flecked with gold in the morning light, scan the space with academic precision. His tall, lean frame fills the doorway as he waits for our confirmation.
"Just waiting on our resident pilot," Ben says, stroking his scruffy beard thoughtfully. "Probably primping in the bathroom. Man takes longer with his hair than most women I know."
