Page 64 of You've Got The Love
The ride north is long. We leave the city lights behind, winding through dense forest roads, past scattered cabins and stretches of untouched pine. The only sounds are the tyres crunching gravel and the soft rustle of trees swaying in the night wind. I watch the blur of green and darkness out the window, my nerves ebbing slowly as we venture deeper into the woods.
The cabin appears like a secret—tucked into a clearing, modest and weather-worn, with smoke curling faintly from the chimney. It’s the kind of place that looks untouched by time. The scent of pine, cold moss, and distant firewood hits me the moment I step out of the van, and for a second… it feels like breathing for the first time in days.
“Another safe-house owned by theDutch flower mafia?” I smirk.
Bas pushes the door open—it’s already unlocked—and gestures me inside. The key sits casually on the side table, like it’s been waiting for us.
“Yeah,” he says with a faint grin. “Something like that.”
Inside, the cabin is small but warm. He lights the fire with practised movements while I unpack a few things, grateful for the crackle of flame and the golden glow it throws across the room. The walls are lined with shelvesholding books, tools, jars of nails and screws, maps with frayed edges pinned to corkboard.
We settle onto the old sofa near the fire, our mugs steaming in our hands. I curl one leg underneath me and watch the flames flicker.
Bas glances at me after a while, his tone gentle. “Can I ask you something?”
I nod without hesitation. “Of course.”
He studies me for a beat. “Why flowers?”
I blink. It’s not what I expected. “What do you mean?”
“You’re a florist. It’s your life—your shop, your hands, your world. Why that? What made you choose it?”
I smile softly, caught off guard by the simplicity of the question. “My nan,” I say after a second. “When I was little, I’d spend every weekend in her garden. She had this tiny cottage on the island, and the garden was like something out of a fairy tale. Roses, lavender, iris, and peonies the size of your head. Every inch was alive.”
I glance at him, and he’s watching me with quiet interest.
“I used to help her pick and prune and deadhead things, even though I had no idea what I was doing. But she always made it feel like magic. Like we were growing spells. It just… stuck. Flowers became a way to speak without saying anything. They carry meaning. They comfort; they celebrate. I guess it felt like the only kind of beauty I could rely on.”
Bas nods, and something shifts behind his eyes. That softness in him—the one he rarely shows—edges forward for a moment before he looks away.
“She sounds like a good woman,” he says.
“She was. I think she’d like you.”
He chuckles under his breath, but there’s a weight to it, a shadow behind the smile. I reach for my tea, not pressing, letting the silence grow.
After a moment, Bas speaks again, quieter. “Marieke used to keep a garden.”
I look up slowly, surprised. He doesn’t talk about her—not often, not like this.
“In the back garden of the house we shared,” he says, eyes on the fire. “Nothing fancy. A few herbs. Some wildflowers she tried to tame. A stubborn rose bush that never bloomed. But she kept at it every spring, every summer, like it meant something to make things grow, even when they didn’t want to.”
His voice dips, quieter still.
“I didn’t get it back then. I thought it was just her way of passing the time. But now…” He trails off, rubbing the back of his neck.
I don’t speak. I just try to comfort him the best I can.
We sit for a while in the low glow of the fire, the flames dancing across the wood-panelled walls. Outside, the wind whispers through the trees, brushing the cabin like it’s checking to see if we’re still here.
When Bas speaks again, his voice is more guarded. “You remind me of her sometimes. Not in a way that hurts—just in the way you… care. About things that grow.”
My heart thuds a little harder. “Thank you,” I whisper.
We fall into silence again, our hands entwined on the sofa cushion between us. I watch the firelight flicker across his face, casting shadows that make his eyes seem darker, older, and more tired than usual.
“You okay?” I ask.
