Page 65 of The Slug Crystal
"Allow me," Marco says, his voice so quiet it barely disturbs the hallway silence. I hadn't heard him approach, hadn't realized he'd followed me from the pool.
He takes the key card gently from my fingers and slides it into the slot with precise movements. The light flashes green, and he pushes the door open, holding it without entering. There's a question in the gesture; permission is sought, not assumed.
"Thank you," I mumble, stepping past him into the room. Water trails behind me, marking my path across the floor like breadcrumbs. I place Alex's terrarium on the dresser with exaggerated care, concentrating to ensure it's stable despite the room's gentle spinning.
Marco remains in the doorway, hesitating at the threshold. "Will you be all right?" he asks, his academic tone softened with genuine concern.
I turn to face him, suddenly aware of how pathetic I must look—soaked to the skin, slightly drunk, emotionally unraveling. "I'm fine," I lie, then immediately undermine myself by swaying slightly.
His eyebrow raises, skepticism etched in the subtle movement. Without waiting for further invitation, he steps inside, closing the door quietly behind him. He moves past me to thebathroom, his tall frame silhouetted against the light as he reaches in and turns on the shower.
"You'll feel better," he says, testing the water temperature with the back of his hand. Steam begins to fill the small space, fogging the mirror. "Warm water will help clear your head."
There's nothing seductive in his manner, nothing like Luca's heated gaze in the pool. Marco approaches my situation with the same methodical care he might apply to a laboratory specimen, clinical, but not cold. Precise, but not without compassion.
I stand swaying in the center of the room, suddenly uncertain. The limoncello has left my thoughts fuzzy around the edges, my limbs heavy and uncooperative. The idea of navigating buttons and zippers seems impossibly complex.
Marco seems to read my dilemma in my expression. He approaches slowly, telegraphing each movement as if approaching a skittish animal. "May I help you?" he asks, his voice neutral, professional almost.
I nod, unable to articulate the complex blend of relief and vulnerability his offer evokes.
His hands are steady as he helps me out of my sodden jacket, hanging it carefully over the back of a chair to dry. When he turns to my shirt, his movements remain efficient, his touch minimal and respectful. Unlike Luca, whose hands sought to explore and possess, Marco touches only what is necessary, with his gaze averted to offer what privacy he can.
"Arms up," he instructs gently, and I comply, allowing him to peel the wet fabric away from my skin. He immediately wraps a towel around me, providing a shield of modesty before helping me with my jeans, which cling stubbornly to my legs.
Throughout the process, his touch remains clinical, with clear boundaries. There's an intimacy to it nonetheless, not the heated intimacy of desire, but the tender intimacy of care. It reminds me of being sick as a child, of my mother's coolhands on my forehead, of the safety in being tended to without expectation.
"The shower is ready," he says once I'm wrapped in the towel. "Can you manage from here?"
I nod, finding my voice. "Yes. Thank you."
He steps back, giving me space. "I'll wait. To ensure you don't fall."
The shower is transformative, the hot water washing away the chlorine and the confusion, at least temporarily. The limoncello haze recedes slightly, leaving behind a clearer but more embarrassed awareness. I emerge wrapped in a towel, my wet hair dripping down my back, to find Marco sitting in the room's single chair, his attention on Alex's terrarium.
He stands when I appear, retrieving a second towel from the bathroom. Without a word, he drapes it around my shoulders, his hands briefly squeezing my upper arms in a gesture of comfort.
"Better?" he asks.
"Much," I admit. "Though I'm still not entirely sober."
His smile is gentle, understanding. "Limoncello can be deceptive. The sweetness masks its strength."
He guides me to the bed, pulling back the covers with one hand while steadying me with the other. There's something so reassuring about his presence—solid and dependable, like a well-constructed theory.
I sit on the edge of the bed, and he kneels to adjust Alex's terrarium on the nightstand, ensuring it's positioned securely. His scholarly precision extends to this small task, adjusting the glass box a few millimeters at a time until he's satisfied with its stability.
"He is always so undisturbed by our adventures," Marco observes, studying the blue snail with genuine interest.
"Unlike his caretakers," I say with a weak laugh. "I'm a mess, Marco."
He turns to me, his expression softening as he takes in my damp hair, my towel-wrapped form, the vulnerability I can feel written across my face. He gently brushes a strand of wet hair from my forehead, his fingers just grazing my skin. "Rest," he instructs, his voice low and soothing. "Things often appear with more clarity in the morning light."
As he stands to leave, I catch his wrist, the question spilling from me before I can reconsider. "Why are you helping me? All of you confuse me, but especially you. You barely know me. You barely know Alex. This isn't your problem to solve."
Marco looks down at my hand on his wrist, then meets my eyes. His smile is enigmatic, containing depths I haven't glimpsed before. "Some mysteries are worth solving, but people are always the reason we choose to stay," he says, his gaze shifting briefly to the terrarium. "Besides, I've never encountered such a blue snail before. Scientifically speaking, it's fascinating."
The humor in his last statement belies the seriousness of what came before. I release his wrist, digesting his words as he moves toward the door.
