Page 55 of You've Got The Love
Bas sits close, the warmth of his body just out of reach but heavy enough to steady the pounding of my heart.
He’s quiet for a long moment, eyes lost in the shadows dancing across the cabin ceiling. Then he speaks, his voice low and raw.
“I’m scared, Amber.”
I turn to him, surprised by the fragility behind his usual strength. “Scared of what?”
He swallows hard, fingers curling tightly around the mug in his hands. “That I’ll lose you too.”
The words hang between us like a storm cloud.
“I’ve already lost so much,” he continues, eyes darkening. “Marieke… Abel’s mother. My wife. She was everything. And losing her nearly broke me. Wanting this with you… it’s terrifying. Because if I let myself feel it fully and something happens…” He trails off. “I don’t know if I could survive that twice.”
I reach out, placing my hand over his. “Bas…”
“No,” he says softly, voice cracking just a little. “It’s not fear of being hurt. It’s fear that I’m betraying something sacred. That this thing I feel for you is too much, too real, too selfish.”
His confession cuts through me—raw, real, undeserved. I squeeze his hand. “You’re not betraying anything. You’re human.”
He meets my eyes, and for the first time, he doesn’t look like he’s holding himself together—he looks like he’s trying to let go.
“You’re not alone anymore,” I whisper. “You don’t have to carry it alone.”
We sit like that for a while, the soft lapping of water outside blending with the steady beat of our hearts.
Then, after a moment, Bas pulls back slightly and exhales. “I want to tell you about them. My family. How they keep me grounded.”
I nod, urging him softly. “I’d like that.”
He smiles faintly, the first real one since we arrived. “Sanne—my sister—is my rock. She looks after Abel when I can’t. Holidays, birthdays, school stuff—she’s there. For both of us.Always.”
He pauses for a moment, then adds quietly, “And my ma and pa… God, they’ve been through so much. But they show up for me. For Abel.Always. They don’t ask questions, don’t pressure me—they just love him like they loved me. My dad fixes things around the place when I forget or run out of time, and my ma always drops off soup or Abel’s favourite biscuits. If I let her, she’d move in and do everything for me.”
I smile, picturing it. “They sound like good people.”
“They are,” he says softly. “They didn’t always know how to help after Marieke died—not sure anyone knows how toin that situation—but they were there. They didn’t let go. They stayed steady, even when I couldn’t be.”
There’s a heaviness in his voice, but also gratitude. A kind of quiet reverence.
“Christmas is chaotic but beautiful,” he continues. “Sanne makes sure we all come together. Abel’s favourite part is decorating the tree and putting up the lights. We have little traditions—hot chocolate, homemade cookies. My ma does this huge spread, and my dad always pretends he hates the mess, but he’s the one singing carols the loudest.”
I reach out, brushing a stray hair from his face. “Sounds perfect.”
“It is,” he admits, voice softening. “And it’s part of why I was afraid. Because wanting you… it means inviting you into that. It means dreaming again. And I wasn’t sure I had permission to do that.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. “Bas, love isn’t about permission. It’s a choice. And I choose you.”
He pulls me close again, holding me like I’m the only thing that matters.
Outside, the city hums quietly, but inside our little houseboat, amid uncertainty and memory, we find a fragile kind of hope.
Chapter 31
Amber
The morning light filters softly through the thin curtains, casting a muted gold haze across the narrow cabin. Outside, the canals are still and grey, but inside the houseboat, it’s warm, quiet, and thick with the kind of hush that feels like the world holding its breath.
I stretch beneath the duvet and turn into the solid weight of Bas beside me. His arm is slung over my waist, hand curled at my hip, breath warm against the back of my neck. He’s still asleep, his body curved protectively around mine. The warmth of him feels grounding—something solid in a world that keeps shifting beneath us.
