Page 94 of You've Got The Love
Abel’s eyes light. He scoots closer, pushes a tiny trowel into Bas’s palm with full ceremony. “You gotta be gentle. Like this.”
Bas mirrors him, hands moving slowly, carefully. For a long moment, tension loosens from a place I’ve been braced without noticing. Sunlight, soil, a boy teaching his father, a man listening like it’s the only lesson he ever needed.
When Bas looks up, our eyes catch. There’s an unguarded softness in his—the kind you don’t plan and can’t fake. My heart stutters. He doesn’t look away.
By late morning, the rhythm of the day has taken us—walk-ins for winter birthdays, a bouquet “that smells like a forest after rain,” an order of wreaths for a hotel that always overpays and under-smiles. I sit behind the counter with a cup of tea cooling between my palms and watch the two of them—Abel triumphant with a daisy he’s potted mostly himself, Bas ruffling his hair with that quiet, private smile reserved for his son.
Jess sidles over, pink streaks in her hair catching the light. “You look… happy,” she says, nudging my elbow with hers.
“I am,” I admit, then touch my sternum with two fingers. “But there’s still a storm in here. Bas. The baby. It’s a lot.”
Jess’s usual sass gentles. “It’s okay to be scared. Just remember to breathe, Bell. You’re building something beautiful. Even beautiful things are heavy when you’re carrying them.”
I glance back at my two favourite chaos-bringers. “I hope so.”
Bas comes up front, wiping soil off his hands on his jeans like the denim can take it. “Lunch?” he asks, head tipped toward the back room.
“Yes, please,” I say, meaning more than the word holds.
We perch on stools at the counter. He slides half a sandwich toward me, keeping the other, eyes steady onmy face like he’s bracing for turbulence and choosing to fly anyway. “You’ve been quiet.”
“Thinking,” I say, rolling the paper back from my bread. “About the future. About what this baby means—for all of us.”
A shadow moves through his expression fast as a cloud—fear, or the ghost of it. He nods. “Some days I’m worried I’ll mess it up. That I’m doing everything wrong.” He lifts one shoulder. “I think that’s parenting. Being scared means you care.”
I reach over, take his hand. His palm is warm and nicked from work, the knuckles strong and familiar. “You are a wonderful father, Bas.”
He squeezes once, as if taking strength from the contact, and doesn’t let go.
The afternoon slips by in petals and laughter. Abel helps me make a bouquet, his tongue poking out in concentration while he ties twine that’s half knot, half bird’s nest. “Look!” he beams, lifting a bunch of daisies and wild stems that look more perfect for their unevenness. “For you!”
I crouch to him, brush a thumb across his cheek. “It’s perfect, thank you, sweetheart.”
From the doorway to the back room, Bas watches us, that small smile again bending the edges of his mouth. It’s the kind of smile that feels like a promise you could build a life around.
We stay open late to cater to last-minute customers who often forget they need flowers until dusk. Then the bellrings one final time, and the street outside thins to quiet. Abel is curled up in the armchair in the back with a book about a bear who hates winter, eyelids heavy and stubborn. Jess flips the sign and claps her hands once. “Right, you lot, I’m taking the till and my excellent taste in playlist home. Text me if you elope.”
“Jess,” I warn, laughing despite myself.
She kisses the air in our general direction, musses Abel’s hair, and disappears with a final jingle of the bell and a shouted, “Love you, Bell—don’t overthink your joy!”
It’s just the three of us then, shop lights softened, the world pared down to a golden pool of warmth against the winter. Bas lifts Abel with the ease of years, holding him like he’s as breakable and invincible as boys are. Abel’s head drops to Bas’s shoulder, mouth open in honest sleep.
“Do you want me to call Sanne?” I ask, keeping my voice low.
“I texted her,” he says. “She’s two minutes away.” He kisses Abel’s temple—tender, automatic. “He’ll want you to say goodnight.”
I slip a finger into Abel’s sleepy hand. “Goodnight, beautiful boy,” I whisper. “Thank you for helping me today.”
“Mm,” he hums, already half in dreams.
Two minutes later, there’s a knock; Sanne appears in a puff of cold air and kindness, all scarf and competence. There’s a quick exchange of murmurs, a thank-you, a kiss on Abel’s hair, and then they’re gone into the night, headingfor Sanne’s friend’s cottage and hot chocolate. The bell settles. The silence after them feels new, expectant.
It leaves Bas and me alone with flowers and night, with everything we haven’t said and everything we already did.
We tidy in companionable quiet—the kind of quiet that knows it’s safe. He stacks empty crates, I rinse buckets, and the smell of green things rises clean and damp. At some point, our paths cross behind the counter: my bucket, his shoulder, a near-collision that presses laughter into my mouth, makes heat prick along my skin.
“Sorry,” he says, his hands gentle at my waist to steady me. His voice drops a register. “I’ll move.”
