Page 59 of The Slug Crystal
I watch them all. The candlelight plays across their faces, highlighting what draws me to each of them in ways I'm finding increasingly hard to deny.
I catch myself smiling, genuinely smiling, for what feels like the first time in days. The food is incredible, the wine is flowing, and the company—the company is something I never knew I needed until now.
The guilt hits like a sudden cold draft. Alex. Alex is still a snail, trapped in glass beneath this table, while I'm enjoying fine wine and flirtation. What kind of person does that make me? I discreetly check beneath the tablecloth for a third time. The blue snail is at the edge of his terrarium, methodically consuming a piece of lettuce I'd placed there before we left the hotel. He seems content enough, but that's hardly the point.
"More wine, signora?" The waiter materializes at my elbow, bottle poised, drawing my attention away from Alex.
"Oh, I shouldn't—" I begin, but Luca is already nodding.
"Of course she will," he says in English before adding something in Italian that makes the waiter smile knowingly.
Ruby liquid cascades into my glass, and I wonder when it was last refilled. I've lost count. I think I’ve had two glasses? Three? The warmth in my cheeks and the pleasant haziness at the edges of my vision suggest the latter.
"To new adventures," Luca proposes, raising his glass. Hiseyes hold mine across the table, dark and knowing. I remember with sudden clarity how he looked in the cockpit of his plane, his confident hands on the controls, his gray eyes flashing with competence, and I feel a flare of attraction well up, low in my belly.
We toast, and I take another sip. The wine is rich and velvety on my tongue. Marco's hand remains steady on my knee, his thumb now making small, exploratory movements along the inner seam of my jeans. The contact is innocent enough that I could easily ignore it, but electric enough that I can think of little else.
"The main course approaches," our waiter announces, appearing with a massive platter of pappardelle, the wide ribbons of pasta gleaming with rich ragu. "And then, for the brave, the bistecca—" He makes a chef's kiss gesture. "Perfection."
As he serves each of us, I become aware of a shift in the energy around the table. All four men are watching me with varying degrees of intensity. Ben's gaze is playful yet heated, Marco's is scholarly yet intimate, Jake's look is familiar yet yearning, and Luca appears confident yet questioning. The attention should make me uncomfortable, but the wine has softened my edges, made me languid and receptive.
"You have sauce—" Jake says, gesturing to the corner of my mouth. Before I can reach for my napkin, he leans over, his thumb gently brushing the spot away. The gesture is tender, intimate in its casualness. His touch lingers a fraction longer than necessary, and I see his pupils dilate slightly as our eyes meet.
"Grazie," I say, the Italian word slipping out unexpectedly. Luca smiles approvingly across the table.
"She's becoming Italian already," he teases. "Next she'll be arguing about the proper way to cook pasta and driving like a Formula One racer."
"I'd pay to see that," Ben says, his foot bumping mine beneath the table—on the opposite side from Marco's hand, which hasn't moved. The dual contact makes my breath catch.
The waiter returns with dessert menus just as I'm wondering if my flushed cheeks are visible in the candlelight. The menus are smaller, handwritten on thick paper. As I try to focus on the Italian words, I realize I'm definitely more intoxicated than I should be. The letters swim slightly, and I find myself smiling at nothing in particular.
"Perhaps the tiramisu to share?" Marco suggests, his academic tone belied by the way his fingers have now found the sensitive spot behind my knee. "It's traditional."
I look up from the menu to find all four of them watching me. They’re waiting for my reaction, my decision, my lead. The power of that attention, multiplied by four, hits me with unexpected force. In this moment, with wine in my blood and their eyes on my face, I feel both vulnerable and strangely powerful, caught in a web of my own unintended making.
"Tiramisu sounds perfect," I manage, my voice steadier than I feel. "To share."
Friday, 8:02PM. The night air hits me like a splash of cool water as we step out of the trattoria, though it does little to clear the pleasant haze of wine from my head. Florence at night is a different creature than Florence by day, softer around the edges, mysterious in its shadows, intimate in its ancient, narrow streets.
I clutch Alex's terrarium with both hands, my knuckles white with effort. I'm determined not to drop him, even as the cobblestones seem to tilt slightly beneath my feet. The others surround me in a loose formation that feels protective without being suffocating. Jake to my left, his steady presence a constant anchor; Marco behind me, his scholarly observations about Renaissance architecture floating over my shoulder;Ben ahead, walking backward to face us as he argues with Luca about the best late-night bars in Florence.
"This way," Luca says, his hand finding the small of my back as he guides us around a corner. "There's something you should see."
The narrow street suddenly opens into a small cobblestone square, a hidden gem tucked away from the main tourist thoroughfares. String lanterns crisscross overhead, casting a constellation of warm light across the ancient stones. A fountain bubbles in the center, its marble edges worn smooth by centuries of hands and hips. A collection of musicians has set up near one corner; a violinist, an accordion player, and a guitarist, their melodies spilling into the night air like liquid gold.
Couples dance in the space between the fountain and the musicians, their movements unhurried and natural. The scent of night-blooming jasmine mingles with espresso from a tiny café at the edge of the square. An old man sits outside it, smoking a pipe that adds sweet notes of tobacco to the olfactory symphony.
"It's beautiful," I breathe, momentarily forgetting the weight of the terrarium in my hands, the mission that brought us here, and the growing complications between us all.
"Dance with me," Luca says suddenly, his accent thicker than usual, his eyes reflecting the lantern light above. He gestures to Alex's terrarium. "Let me take this."
I hesitate, my protective instincts flaring. "I don't know if?—"
"Trust me," he says, gently taking the glass box from my hands. "I'll keep him safe."
He moves to a stone bench at the edge of the square, carefully placing the terrarium in a recessed alcove where it can't possibly fall. I watch as he takes extra care to ensure it's stable, arranging his scarf around it as a cushion. The gestureis unexpectedly tender from someone so effortlessly confident.
When he returns, he extends his hand with a slight bow that should look ridiculous but somehow doesn't. "Now, dance with me."
