Page 1 of No Gemini Does it Better (BLP Signs of Love #2)

I blinked, hearing the alarm clock’s annoying blare dragging me from a deep sleep.

It was five thirty in the morning, and the time was lit up on my phone like a billboard in Times Square inside my dark bedroom.

My hand fumbled over the nightstand, tapping the snooze button with more aggression than necessary.

Just five more minutes. That wish was as much a morning ritual as brushing my teeth was.

With a groan, I peeled myself from the tangled sheets, my feet settling down on the cold hardwood floor of my one-bedroom apartment.

The walls seemed to lean in a little closer each day.

They were thin enough for me to hear my neighbor Mr. Wilkin’s TV blasting re-runs of Celebrity Family Feud next door at any given time of the day or night, but they were also the boundaries of my sanctuary.

It wasn’t much, the tiny space I called home, but it was mine.

I brushed past Butta, my sleeping brown Maltipoo, and shuffled to the bathroom. My brown eyes struggled against the weight of sleep as I ran a hand over the satin bonnet covering my long box braids that stopped at my waist.

“Another day, Sawyer,” I muttered to my reflection, trying to muster some enthusiasm.

The dark circles under my eyes told the honest story of late nights spent pouring over case files, but there was no time to dwell on that now.

There were people out there counting on me, people who needed someone to fight for them.

And fight, I would, after I managed to untangle myself from my comfortable oversized T-shirt and cotton shorts and step out into the world that never quite felt like it fit.

The shower sputtered to life, spewing out a reluctant stream of warmth that barely had time to soak into my salted caramel skin before I shut it off.

The routine was clockwork: lather, scrub, rinse, repeat, and done.

My work attire hung on the back of the door: a no-nonsense blouse and slacks, chosen the night before in an attempt to save those precious morning minutes.

I dressed swiftly, the fabric clinging neatly to my slim frame.

Making my way down the hall, I glanced at the kitchen.

Standing at five feet two, I often had to stretch onto my tiptoes to reach things, a daily reminder that the world wasn’t made for the petite.

After grabbing my travel coffee mug, a relic from a thrift store, from the cabinet, I began to brew the dark liquid that promised to be an instant boost of alertness in a cup.

I filled my mug and screwed the lid on tight. The goal was no spills today. With the hot cup secured in my hand, I made sure Butta had enough food and water in his bowls and grabbed my lunchbox from the fridge before locking the door behind me and stepping into the noise of the city’s heartbeat.

By the time I arrived at my job, the streets of Downtown Jacksonville were already pulsing with energy, people streaming past in a blur of motion. The buildings loomed overhead, their windows reflecting the early sunlight as I wove through the crowd.

I took a sip of coffee, the bitter tang grounding me in the present as the door to the legal aid office swung open with a familiar squeal.

Inside, the room crackled with energy only a unified vision could create.

My colleagues were already at their desks, phones pressed to ears, fingers flying over keyboards.

“Morning, Sawyer,” greeted my coworker Jess without looking up. Her voice was laced with the warmth we all felt for each other, yet underscored by the focus of her task at hand. She was a walking encyclopedia of housing law, the go-to when any of us hit a wall in our cases.

“Hey,” I replied, slipping into my chair and booting up the aging computer that groaned to life.

“Got a tough one for you today,” said Mark from across the room, his eyes crinkling in what I knew was a mix of sympathy and challenge.

He handled family law, always with a story that could break your heart, but today, he wore the look of someone who had seen too much yet refused to be beaten by it.

“Wouldn’t change a thing,” I shot back, cracking my brown knuckles before diving into the mountain of paperwork taking over my desk.

By ten o’clock, my first client sat across from me, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, worry etching deep lines across her caramel forehead. I listened, really listened, as she spilled out her story—a narrative of desperation and hope intertwined.

“Okay, let’s see what we can do about this eviction notice,” I said after she finished, reaching for the stack of forms I knew like the back of my hand.

I handed her a tissue from the box that permanently lived on my desk.

It was not just about the law; it was about being there, human to human, especially at a time when humanity seemed to be lost in the world.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and those two words fueled me more than any cup of coffee ever could. Her gratitude was felt and real; it was the stuff that kept me grounded in the reality of what we did here every day.

By noon, I was grabbing my lunchbox and slipping into the hallway, carefully dodging a fellow legal aid worker who was balancing a stack of files with more grace than necessary. I paused before stepping outside and joining the rush, the old clock on the wall catching my eye.

The ticking marked the seconds slipping by in my lunch break, a break I used for more than just eating.

It was my daily slice of peace, my momentary escape.

I stood there, allowing myself a rare chance to look back—not because I enjoyed nostalgia, but because sometimes it was important to remember why you kept moving forward.

My hometown was a dot on the map in VA, a place where everyone knew your story, or at least they thought they did.

I grew up there, feeling every bit the square peg trying to fit into one of those round holes.

My dad would always say, “Sawyer, don’t aim too high.

The fall hurts worse.” But falling didn’t scare me; standing still did.

I shook off the memories and pushed open the door, stepping out into the midday traffic and pedestrians.

My eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight as I made my way down the street, weaving through the sea of people until I reached the park.

It was my haven. A bench nestled under a tree waited for me.

I sat down, letting out a sigh as my body welcomed the rest.

I pulled out my sandwich, unwrapped it carefully, and took a bite, savoring the simplicity of smoked turkey and cheddar cheese.

This was the life I’d chosen, the chaos I embraced because, through it all, I'd found my purpose.

I was no longer the girl from Smithfield, Virginia.

I was Sawyer Williams, adefender of the voiceless.

While finishing my lunch, I watched an elderly black couple reading together. They sat side by side, holding hands in a quiet display of affection while she read the newspaper to him. It brought a smile to my lips, reminding me that love still bloomed in the softest gestures.

After a few seconds of people-watching, I brushed off the crumbs from my lap, tucked the wrapper into my lunchbox, and readied myself to head back.

There was work to be done, battles to be fought, and lives to be touched.

But for those thirty minutes, the world had slowed down, and I remembered not only who I was but who I wanted to be.

Stepping back into the office was like diving into a colder reality, one I’d briefly escaped. I shook off the last remnants of park serenity and scanned the piles of paperwork on my desk. The clock was ticking on multiple cases, and I needed to prioritize.

“Back into the fray?” Jess called out from her desk across the room.

“You know it’s my favorite place to be,” I replied, only half-sarcastic.

“Maybe we’ll all get a much-needed break over the next couple of days.”

My brows creased. “What do you mean?”

“Y’know, with the holiday and the hurricane.”

“Don’t you mean tropical storm?”

“That’s what it is now, but every few hours, it sounds like it’s gaining more traction. The weatherman is saying this might really be serious.”

I sucked my teeth, refusing to believe the hype. I’d been a resident of Jacksonville for over five years. Although the city had a history of hurricanes, nothing significant had occurred since I’d been here, only a few tropical storms that brought some wind or minimal flooding damage.

“Don’t say that! This is the first Fourth of July that I actually have plans. I bought my plane ticket months ago.”

Jess nodded while swiping her shoulder-length auburn hair behind her ear. “Oh, that’s right. You’re going on that trip with your friends, right?”

I bobbed my head. “Yeah. Miami. I’m supposed to be flying out tomorrow afternoon and meeting them there. I still need to pack.”

I’d already managed to squeeze in time to get my hair braided, a mani and pedi, and a wax, all in the days leading up to the trip. Throwing my bikini and a few outfits into my suitcase was the final thing on my to-do list.

“Well, good luck, girl. I really hope your flight doesn’t get delayed or canceled.”

“Don’t wish that on me!”

“I’m not. I’m just saying I hope that doesn’t happen.”

“That makes two of us,” I said before settling into my chair and shaking the mouse to wake up the computer from its slumber.

Emails flooded my inbox: pleas for help, updates from court clerks, andreminders of the endless red tape that tried to strangle hope. I sifted through them methodically, replying where I could and flagging those that required more attention for later.

It wasn’t long before the next client walked in—a Hispanic woman with etched lines of worry in her face deep enough to rival the grooves in our battered old waiting chairs. She clutched a stack of eviction notices like they were a shield that could somehow protect her from the inevitable.

“Mrs. Alvarez, let’s see what we can do,” I said, guiding her into the small consultation room.

She poured out her story between sobs. Her landlord wanted her out, there were rent hikes she couldn’t keep up with, and she had no family left to turn to since they’d all been deported.

I listened, nodding where appropriate, letting her words fill the space between us.

Sometimes, all people wanted was to be heard.

“Okay, we’ll fight this. You’re not alone,” I assured her, already plotting our countermoves against an unforgiving system.

My heart throbbed with a familiar ache, the kind that came from wanting to fix more than I ever could.

“Gracias,” she whispered, her voice cracking like thin ice underfoot.

“Let’s start by drafting a response to your landlord and look into emergency housing options,” I suggested, my fingers flying over the keyboard as we spoke.

When she left, she carried a different set of papers, ones filled with legal jargon that formed a temporary barrier against her storm.

And though the weight in her eyes hadn’t lifted entirely, there was a flicker of something else there now.

Hope, maybe. Or just the relief that comes with having someone else shoulder part of the burden.

As I watched her go, a piece of me went with her, out the door and into the chaos of the day. I cared. Maybe too much. But that caring was what kept me going. Every piece of paper, every call, it was all part of the bigger battle of justice for all.

The hours rolled on, a blur of faces and files and a series of calls, research, and strategy.

Each one was unique yet bound by the common thread of needing help, my help.

I fought for extensions, appealed denied benefits, and explained legalese in plain terms. Each small victory was a quiet triumph, each setback a reason to push harder.

“Good work today, Sawyer,” Jenna, a fellow legal aid, said, her voice pulling me back to the present.

“Thanks,” I managed, the exhaustion creeping in around the edges of my determination.

But I pushed it away. There was still so much to do, and I was just getting started.

As the sun began to dip low, I leaned back in my chair. The office had emptied out, the hum of activity replaced by the soft clicking of my nails against the keyboard as I typed up my last few notes for the day.

Sure, I was tired. But there was something satisfying about knowing that I’d made a difference. I wasn’t one to back down from a fight, not now, not ever.

I shuffled out of my car, my feet heavy with the day’s wear.

Each step homeward felt like a slow peel away from the layers of tension that had coiled around me since morning.

The city was transitioning from day to night, and with each step I took toward my apartment door, my shoulders sank lower, easing me toward relief.

The lock clicked open, and I pushed into my apartment.

Butta immediately greeted me with a happy bark and excited tail wag.

I quickly scooped him into my arms, cradling him for a few short seconds before putting him back on the ground.

I kicked off my shoes and let my bag thud against the floor, the sound oddly comforting in its finality.

I flicked on the lamp, bathing the room in a soft glow that pushed back the creeping shadows.

I stood there for a moment, just breathing.

My kitchen counter was cluttered with mail I hadn’t sorted through and a few magazines I didn’t remember ordering.

The familiarity of it all was oddly comforting.

After a shower, I sank onto the couch, the cushions conforming to my tired body.

The day replayed in my head—the faces of clients, stacks of paperwork, the weight of their stories pressing into me.

But then I thought of Mrs. Alvarez, her timid smile as hope crept in, and my chest swelled with a quiet pride.

This was why I did it, why I drained myself daily; it mattered.

Still, as much as I wanted to bask in those small victories, I couldn’t shake the feeling of the impending storm my coworker had warned me about.

I flipped on the TV and turned to the local news to try and catch the latest weather forecast. There was no good news to be heard, only the looming threat of a fucked up weekend.

Should I run out and get supplies?

For what? I won’t even be here. Right?

Fuck.

An uneasy feeling rolled through me, one I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Maybe it was the way the city seemed more agitated lately, or the subtle shifts in the office, the sense that we were all bracing for something big.

I glanced at my phone, willing it to stay silent for the night as I went to pull out my suitcase. Tomorrow would come soon enough, bringing its own set of challenges, ones I wasn’t sure I was ready for. But tonight, I let the stillness wash over me, holding onto the peace as long as it would last.