Page 40 of You've Got The Love
The colour drains from her face. Her mouth opens like she wants to argue, to ask how, to deny it—but she doesn’t. Not really. Instead, she swallows hard and spins toward the bag we keep by the door, the one we swore we’d never unpack completely. Her hands tremble as she starts shoving our things inside.
“Where?” she whispers, barely audible.
I glance at the worn map in my bag, tracing the northern routes in my mind. Endless roads. Empty woods. Fewer eyes. “North,” I say. “Into Sweden. We keep moving until we’re ghosts again.”
Amber nods once, her face pale but determined. She zips the bag and meets my gaze, her eyes bright with fear and trust all at once.
Because that’s what we are now.
Ghosts.
Chapter 22
Amber
The van hums steadily beneath us as we leave the centre of Copenhagen behind. The city shrinks in the rearview mirror, its spires and canals swallowed by mist and drizzle. Outside, the grey sky presses low, heavy as a blanket, and the slick roads blur past in a rhythm that matches the pounding of my heartbeat. The windshield wipers sweep back and forth with a soft, rhythmic thunk, marking time against the quiet that fills the cabin.
Bastiaan drives with that calm, watchful focus I’ve come to depend on. His hands are steady on the wheel, long fingers gripping just tightly enough to respond if the van jerks or the road curves unexpectedly. His broad shoulders are tense, though, and every line of his body is coiled tight. I can see his jaw working under the light stubble, the muscle there ticking with every car we pass. He scans the mirrors constantly, cataloging every vehicle, every driver. I swear I can almost hear the calculations inhis head:Who’s following? Who’s lingering? What’s a threat, and what’s just coincidence?
My hand rests in my lap, still tingling from the warmth of his when he’d given it a quick, reassuring squeeze before we pulled out of the city. That tiny gesture had said everything he couldn’t risk putting into words:I’ve got you. We’ll get through this.
I cling to that unspoken promise like a lifeline as the wet Danish countryside rolls by.
Outside, the fields are damp and muted, the colours blurred by the drizzle. Rows of wind turbines spin lazily against the horizon, their blades cutting slow circles through the fog. Farmhouses crouch low against the weather, roofs dark with rain. Everything feels cold, distant, like the world itself is holding its breath. Even the occasional passing car feels like an intruder in this muted space, a reminder that we’re still moving through someone else’s country, strangers with targets on our backs.
Now, with miles stretching between me andHampstead Island, I can’t stop wondering about the life I’m hurtling toward. Or maybe… the life sitting right next to me.
What are we?
Bas and I—whatever this is—burns hot and bright, like a match struck in the dark. That kiss on the barge. The nights pressed together under thin blankets, his heartbeat steady against my cheek, trying to forget that the world wanted to swallow us whole. Every brush of his hand against minefeels like a spark catching on dry tinder, threatening to become something bigger, something I can’t control.
But now, in the middle of this chaos, I can’t tell if what’s happening between us is real… or just born of fear and adrenaline. I’ve seen people fall in love with danger before. My dad’s world is full of them—people clinging to each other in the dark because everything else is falling apart. People who confuse survival with love.
I swore I’d never be one of them.
I sneak a glance at Bas. His profile is all hard lines and quiet strength, the cloudy light cutting over his cheekbone and catching in the rough stubble along his jaw. His eyes are fixed on the road, unreadable, but his presence fills the van like gravity. He’s everything I’ve ever wanted—solid, gentle in ways he doesn’t even realise, and fierce when it matters. And yet… I don’t know if I have the right to want him now.
When this is over—if it’s ever over—what happens to us? Do we go back to being neighbours across the North Sea, pretending this never happened? Will I wake up alone in my little flat above the flower shop, staring at the dusty stems of wilted tulips, wondering if I imagined this whole impossible connection?
My chest tightens with the thought. I want him to want me because I’mme, not because the world forced us into each other’s arms. I want a quiet morning in his windmill kitchen, sunlight spilling through the big window, no threats, no burner phones—just the smell of his coffee andtulips clinging to the air. I want to know what it feels like to be chosen, not just kept safe.
The road curves sharply, and the van sways. My thoughts scatter like startled birds. I grip the door handle without thinking.
“Thinking too loud,” Bastiaan murmurs. His voice is a low rumble, intimate in the small cabin. He doesn’t take his eyes off the road, but one corner of his mouth tugs, like he knows exactly where my mind went.
I give a weak laugh. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he says, his Dutch accent curling around the words. “I like hearing you in my head.”
Something in my chest flips, and I turn my face toward the window, hoping the cold glass will cool the heat rising in my cheeks.
His hand leaves the gearshift and brushes against mine, where it rests on my thigh. The touch is brief but grounding, a silent anchor that keeps me from floating away into the current of fear and hope. My chest tightens with that now-familiar ache—a confusing knot of comfort and longing.
He’s my safety and my danger all at once. My heart knows it, my body knows it, but my head… my head can’t untangle the two anymore.
We lapse back into silence, the van’s steady hum and the patter of rain on the windshield filling the space between us. Every now and then, a car passes in the oppositedirection, its headlights reflecting like shards of white light across the wet road.
A blue sign flashes by:Helsingør – 48 km.
