Page 8 of Love Letters from a Libra (BLP Signs of Love #13)

Libra Daily Horoscope – Your body keeps more secrets than your journal. Let someone read you through silence and safe hands, not words.

My brain took longer than it should’ve to register that this wasn’t my bedroom.

The light was softer, filtered, and actually blocked the sun, unlike my flimsy dollar-store curtains.

I was wearing a dark gray T-shirt that wasn’t mine, and it was soft as if it had been washed a hundred times, and for a second, I froze.

I had to mentally backtrack on what happened last night, but then I remembered nothing happened other than kissing.

Jules’s apartment, right.

I pushed myself up on my elbows. The unfamiliar mattress was firm underneath me. Jazz was coming from somewhere in the other room. It reminded me of my dad’s music, the kind of music that felt like it lived in the walls for years.

I saw Jules in the kitchen through the bedroom door, barefoot, locs hanging around his shoulders. He was wearing sweatpants and a simple white T-shirt. Seeing him this way, not guarded, in a domestic setting, made my chest tighten in a way I wasn’t ready to examine.

I realized he was making tea when I heard the kettle whistle.

I took a moment to look around his bedroom, which had minimal furniture and clean lines, yet wasn’t sterile.

Books were stacked on his nightstand, not as a display but actually being read.

There was a single plant by the window that looked as though it had been meticulously cared for.

There was no clutter or photos that I could see, but somehow, it didn’t feel impersonal. As I shifted, the bed creaked.

Jules peeked into the room. “You’re awake. I made tea. Unless you prefer coffee?”

“Tea is fine,” I said, my morning voice still rough.

I was suddenly aware of my hair, probably doing its own thing, my bare face with no makeup, and wearing nothing but his T-shirt and my panties.

I remembered waking up on the couch now in the middle of the night, still fully clothed but uncomfortable, and he offered me a T-shirt to sleep in before disappearing back to the couch.

It was such a simple thing, but I loved how he didn’t assume and didn’t push.

He brought two mugs to the nightstand beside me. One smelled like maybe lemongrass, and the other, chamomile, my favorite. He remembered.

“Are you okay?” he asked, not hovering and giving me space to be while he was still present.

“Too okay, which feels suspicious,” I answered, wrapping my hands around the warm mug.

He laughed. “Being okay is suspicious now?” Jules asked.

I sipped the tea, which was strong, exactly how I liked it. “Yes, in my experience.”

Something in his expression shifted, as if he understood. “Do you want breakfast? I can make eggs, or there’s a bakery down the street with some decent pastries.”

“I’m not hungry yet.”

However, it was more that I wasn’t ready to break the bubble around us—the morning after, without sex, intimacy without the performance. It was foreign territory.

He nodded and sat on the edge of the bed. “Last night was nice,” he commented.

Last night, we ended up curled up on his bed, watching some documentary about these deep-sea creatures. His arm was around me, but nothing more demanding. It was the most intimate non-intimate evening I’d had in years.

“I agree it was nice.” I studied his face for any sign that he was disappointed or that he expected something else, and I found none.

Our guards had slowly lowered throughout the evening. I told him things about my family that I usually kept private, but nothing that required fixing or solving. Neither of us needed the other to do emotional heavy lifting; we just appreciated the other’s presence and support.

That was what felt suspicious. My mom raised me that way, teaching me how to read a room. She had a way of clocking people on what wasn’t being said. I picked up on that shit without even realizing it.

So far, he was steadily present, and that made me feel like I was waiting for the mask to drop for the real him, with all of his damage to emerge.

“What’s going on in there?” he asked, tapping his finger gently on my temple.

I almost gave him my standard deflection, keeping things surface level with the light answer, but something about the quiet of his apartment and the soft jazz playing in the background made me want to be honest.

“I’m waiting for the catch for whatever this is to make sense,” I admitted.

“Does it have to make sense?” Jules tilted his head.

“In my experience, if something is too easy, I’m missing something important.”

He sipped his tea, considering my words. “I think what you’re missing is that everything doesn’t have to be hard.”

His words hit me in a tender way. I looked down at my tea, watching the steam crawl up between us. “That hasn’t been my experience.”

“I know.” Jules gave me those two simple words, which were heavy with understanding and nothing but acknowledgment.

Jules reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. His touch was casual and light, and my skin warmed under his fingers.

“Drink your tea, take a nap, and I’ll be in the kitchen when you’re ready to rejoin the world,” he said, standing up.

I watched him leave, confidence in his movements, and they scared me too. I didn’t know how to be with someone who didn’t need me to be anything other than what I was. It was the most destabilizing kind of freedom.

I sank back into the comfort of his space, sipping my tea and listening to jazz, which felt like its own kind of bravery.

After slipping back into yesterday’s clothes, I entered the restroom to wash my face and use some mouthwash until I could get home to brush my teeth and shower.

I found Jules in the living room with my empty mug.

The space was open, with high ceilings, concrete floors, and a single plush rug softening it.

Everything had a place. It wasn’t a staged, nobody really lives here, look.

Things were placed with an intention that spoke to someone who knew exactly who they were.

Jules was on the couch, legs stretched out, tablet in his hands. He looked up when I entered, those eyes tracking me with the same quiet attention that unnerved and attracted me at the same time.

“Better?” he asked, setting his tablet aside.

“Yes, I’m dressed, though I’m rocking that slept-in chick look,” I responded, gesturing to my outfit from yesterday.

He smiled, his expression reaching his eyes in a way that made my stomach do a little flip. “I think it works for you. Come have a seat, unless you need to rush off.” He patted the couch next to him.

I shouldn’t have said yes. I knew I had a thousand things to do, a blog post, and calls to return. Instead, I found myself settling onto the couch next to him.

“I’ve read your latest post. It was insightful,” he commented, nodding toward his tablet.

“Thanks, though it’s mostly just translating cosmic noise for the masses. It’s not exactly groundbreaking work,” I replied, keeping my tone light.

“I wouldn’t diminish it like that. You have a way of making complex astrology and astrological concepts accessible without watering them down. That’s actually a gift,” he countered.

I shrugged. “It’s just my job.”

“Is that how you see it, as a job?”

His question caught me off guard, not because it was deep, but because people rarely asked me about the why behind what I did. They either dismissed astrology altogether or treated me like I was some kind of mystic guide with all the answers. Rarely did they ask about the person behind the post.

At a loss for words, I looked around. His furniture was comfortable, in shades of gray and black. There was warmth in how a hand-woven blanket was folded over an armchair, and there was a set of unusual stones arranged on the coffee table.

“Have you ever felt like a fraud?” My question surprised me. I hadn’t meant to be so direct.

“In what way?”

“The whole spiritual guide thing, the blog. My supporters get the aligned me, the girl who has it all together. Who can interpret the stars and know what Mercury retrograde means for their love life. Yet, I’m still figuring out what that even means.”

Jules was quiet for a moment. There was no judgment in his face, just an attentive presence. “You sound like a woman in transition.”

His words hit me with an unexpected force because they were precisely what I needed to hear. He didn’t give the typical you’re not a fraud or everyone feels that way. Instead, he acknowledged the in-between of where I was.

“Yeah, I guess I am,” I admitted. It was crazy how sometimes I felt trapped by the persona I had created.

I realized I had been talking about myself for too long. “What about you, the cybersecurity stuff that you do. Are you aligned with that, or is that just something you’re good at?”

He gave my question some thought. “Both. I’ve learned that I’m drawn to patterns and into places where systems connect and disconnect. Finding vulnerabilities and protecting boundaries, you know, understanding how things work beneath the surface.” Jules’s eyes met mine.

I remembered last night at the meditation studio, the way he held my eyes as a tear fell down my cheek, how I felt seen in that moment—more naked than if we’d actually slept together.

“You’re good at that beneath-the-surface stuff,” I said quietly.

“So are you. Isn’t that what your work is really about, looking past the obvious patterns underneath?” he countered.

I blinked and was surprised again by how he understood aspects of my struggle. “I guess it is.”