Page 7 of Love Letters from a Libra (BLP Signs of Love #13)

She needed space, not questions. She needed room to feel whatever was moving through her without having to label it, justify it, or package it for someone else’s consumption. So I gave Zanaa what I wished I’d been given: presence without pressure, attention without expectation.

Her breathing changed again, a slightly shaky inhale followed by a controlled exhale, but our bodies were having a conversation that bypassed words entirely.

Our physical sensations intensified as we continued.

The point where our palms met grew warmer, almost hot.

It reminded me of those moments in combat when everything narrowed to the essentials: breath, heartbeat, and the present second stretching infinitely in both directions.

But this wasn’t combat. This was the opposite, a surrender into connection rather than a preparation for conflict.

Around us, other couples were having their own experiences. Some stared intently into each other’s eyes, others had closed their eyes completely. A few were smiling, while one woman quietly cried. But in our little island of space, there was just us, Zanaa and me.

When Sarena finally spoke again, her voice was quiet. “Slowly, with intention, begin to withdraw your hands. Not in rejection, but in completion. Honor the connection that was created.”

Zanaa’s fingers curled slightly, the barest pressure against my palms before she pulled away. Her absence was immediate and profound, like a cold front moving in where warmth had been. I lowered my hands to my knees, her touch lingering on my skin.

She didn’t look away this time. Her eyes were clear now, but somehow deeper, and held mine with new steadiness. Whatever storm passed through her had left something changed in its wake—not broken, but rearranged. More authentic.

“Thank you,” Sarena said to the room, but it felt like Zanaa was saying it to me with her eyes, with the slight nod she gave before finally breaking our gaze.

In the service, I learned to read people, cataloging their tales, anticipating their next moves.

But this quiet unfolding of another person, without an agenda or strategy, felt like a different kind of revelation altogether.

Zanaa had trusted me enough to let me see her uncertainty.

That was worth more than any confident display could ever be.

The night air hit different after an hour of synchronized breathing, and both of us basked in the lingering intimacy.

Zanaa hadn’t mentioned her tears, and I didn’t bring it up.

Some vulnerabilities were more powerful when left unacknowledged.

Zanaa walked beside me, closer than before, our arms occasionally brushing as we navigated the crowded sidewalk.

She hadn’t said much since we gathered our things and slipped on our shoes, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence.

It was the quiet of two people processing something they didn’t expect to experience.

“There’s an open market nearby. Are you hungry?” I asked.

“Yes, I’m starving. Apparently, aligning chakras burns calories.”

I chuckled. “Most definitely,” I agreed, patting my belly.

We paused at a crosswalk, waiting for the light to change.

She stood close enough that I felt the heat from her body, her shoulder occasionally pressing against my arm as people pushed past. I wanted to make a move, put my arm around her or take her hand, signaling that this was heading in a romantic direction.

But something told me that I would be rushing what was unfolding naturally between us.

So I just stood there, allowing her to set the pace.

Zanaa finally spoke, her voice slightly lower than usual. “That was not what I expected.”

I glanced at her profile. “Good unexpected or ‘never again’ unexpected?”

“Good, I think. Different.” She tucked a stray curl that had escaped her bun behind her ear.

I navigated her into the market, where we passed a row of food carts. Their awnings lit up against the darkening sky. Zanaa slowed, as we approached one selling tropical fruit cut into elaborate shapes, her gaze lingering on a display of candied mango sprinkled with chili powder.

Before she commented, I stepped toward the vendor. “Two, please.”

The vendor handed me two paper boats of golden mango slices, glistening with sugar and dusted with red chili. I offered one to Zanaa, who accepted it.

“You seem like a mango girl,” I noted, biting into a piece of my own.

She narrowed her eyes, playfulness in her expression. “And what does that mean exactly?”

I considered her as I chewed, taking my time with the answer. The sweetness of the fruit was so good with the heat of the chili, and it worked together better than I imagined.

“Sweet. Slightly unpredictable. Not always in season.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t quite suppress her smile. “That’s the kind of line that works on women who don’t know better.”

“Is it working?” I asked, genuinely curious.

She took a deliberate bite of mango, the sugar leaving a sheen on her lips. “I’ll let you know.”

We continued walking, eating our fruit in silence.

“Oh, there’s a noodle stand over there. It smells amazing.” Zanaa nodded toward the vendor.

“Good eye. I heard they have the best drunken noodles in town.”

We joined the short line, standing close. Our physical contact now felt easy, and her movements accommodated my presence. While we waited, I leaned down with my lips close to her ear. “Some things don’t require words, just energy.”

Zanaa shivered slightly as my lips brushed lightly on her neck.

I half expected her to pull away as my lips hovered beneath her jaw.

She turned toward me. Her eyes held mine like they were holding a question we wanted to answer with our lips.

Then the line moved, and it was our turn to order.

We stepped forward as if the almost kiss hadn’t happened.

After ordering, we collected our spicy noodles and sat down to eat.

“This is really good. This whole evening was unexpected. Thank you,” Zanaa murmured.

“It was.” I agreed, not filling the space with unnecessary words.

After eating, we continued through the market. Zanaa’s body was now relaxed against mine, trusting in a way she hadn’t before the meditation class. As the wind picked up, I removed my jacket and draped it over her shoulders without asking.

“Thank you,” she murmured, pulling it tighter around herself.

We exited the market. The night settled around us, and the crowd thinned as we moved away from the main strip, where we reached my car.

“How about a nightcap? I’m honestly not ready for the night to end,” I asked, looking into her eyes.

“Why are you looking into my eyes like that?” Zanaa giggled shyly.

“Your eyes are pretty.”

Zanaa pulled her lip in with her teeth. “Sure, I’ll join you for a nightcap, but only if your definition of ‘nightcap’ involves 80s R&B and some good wine.”

I raised my eyebrows. "I have bourbon.”

“That'll work.”

We took a short ride to my place. My building was an old brownstone, converted into three units. Zanaa arched an eyebrow when she noticed the keypad. “Ah, you’re secretly rich.”

“Nope, I’m a renter with good credit and a nosy ass landlord,” I said, punching in the code.

Inside, she lingered in the entryway, taking in the minimalist furniture and the art prints in mismatched frames.

“You want a drink or a playlist first?” I asked.

She weighed the options. “Playlist. If your music taste is trash, I’m leaving. No hard feelings.” She laughed.

I scrolled to my ‘late night’ queue and let the first chords of Sade spill into the air.

She exhaled, shoulders dropping dramatically. “Okay, you pass.”

I scoffed. “Come on now, give me a little credit.”

Zanaa laughed. “Okay, I hear you. Where’s your restroom? I’d like to freshen up.”

“Yeah, it’s right over there on the left,” I commented while washing my hands to make our drinks. I poured two glasses of bourbon and took them over to the couch. Zanaa returned and sat next to me.

“Here’s to getting to know you on a more personal level,”I proposed as we clinked glasses.

She sipped. “Mmhmm, this is smooth.”

“No doubt. I love a good aged bourbon,” I replied.

We sank into the music. There was intimacy in the air, our bodies still humming from the meditation class. That’s how the night began. We kept it light for the first thirty minutes.

“What’s your go-to for takeout?” I asked, leaning back, drink in hand.

She sucked her teeth. “It depends on my mood. Soul food when I’m happy, Thai when I’m healing from going through something, and sushi when I want to feel expensive.”

I chuckled. “That's wild.”

She side-eyed me. “What?”

“When you're feeling expensive. Hilarious.”

Zanaa smirked and sipped from her glass. “Okay, what about you?”

“There’s a Jamaican spot on Ninth. Their curry goat is sick. You definitely have to try it.”

She laughed. “Ooh, will do. Okay, I have a question. Do you believe in personality types?”

“You mean Myers-Briggs?” I asked.

She shook her head. “No, Zodiac.”

“Depends,” I replied. Her eyebrows lifted. “Check this out, I have a theory. All Leos secretly want to be Virgos.”

I blinked. “Wait, what?”

“Yup. Deep down, they wish they had that quiet soul. But instead, they roar.”

“Yo, that’s insane, but now that you said it . . . I kind of believe you,” I said, laughing.

“Thank you.” She clinked her glass against mine like she’d won a debate.

Zanaa eyed my arm. “What’s the story behind your tattoo?”

I nodded, turning it so she could see it. “After my mom passed, I needed something to hold on to. The artist’s hands felt like prayer.”

“Aww, that’s sweet.”

We stayed quiet for a bit. “You close with your folks?”

She smiled. “Yeah, my grandma, Mama Tilda, is my heart. Every birthday, she made coconut cake from scratch. Then my mom, cousin, and auntie would dance around the kitchen in slippers. We’d do a Conga line in house shoes.”

“Sounds like joy.”

“It was.”

She looked at me for a long second. “You think people get more honest the later the night gets?”

I glanced at my half-full glass. “I think most folks want to be honest. They need to feel safe first.” Her smile softened. “That’s what I thought.”

From there, we talked about dumb stuff we did as young adults, mine involved a motorcycle and a break-up playlist. Hers involved a blunt, an ex, and a one-way ticket.

“We don’t talk enough about the shit we wish we could unlearn,” she commented.

“We’d be quieter if we did,” I said.

Zanaa looked at me. “That’s real.”

I wasn’t trying to impress her. I just wanted to know her. Conversation slowed.

“Hey, want to watch a movie?”

“Yeah, let’s see what’s on.”

I grabbed the remote. I scrolled and landed on a nature doc narrated by a British voice.

Zanaa laughed, actually clapping her hands when she saw the title: “The Deepest Ocean: Creatures from the Abyss.” Within minutes, we were deep into clowning the sea creatures on screen.

A translucent blob floated across the screen.

She pointed at it. “That’s Gloria. Late to every family reunion, but immediately packs to-go plates for all her grandkids.”

I damn near choked laughing. “Ah damn, Gloria.”

“No, I swear my ex looks like the anglerfish.” Zanaa laughed.

I raised my brows. “Wow,” I commented.

“I’m just saying.” She smirked.

Zanaa had her leg tucked under her, stealing glances that turned into full-blown laughter. The kind that took over the room.

At some point, I pulled her closer. It was natural. By the end of the episode, I had snuck a few kisses in and she curled up against me, head on my shoulder. We didn’t say anything. We let the credits roll and the quiet settle.

“I could fall asleep like this,” she said.

I didn’t move. I allowed her to fall asleep, and I dozed off not long after.