Chapter 30
Amber
After hours on the road, circling back to Copenhagen, the switch from van to houseboat feels surreal.
One minute we’re winding through the outskirts of Copenhagen in the safety of steel and tyres, the next we’re pulling up beside a low dock, where one of Bas’s old friends—silent and efficient—hands him a key and a knowing nod before disappearing without a word. No names. No questions.
The boat itself is small and worn, but sturdy. A little houseboat tucked between others along a quiet canal, as if it’s been waiting for us.
We board quickly, moving like shadows, and the engine hums to life beneath us.
The first thing I notice as we glide through the narrow canals of Copenhagen is the way the city breathes around us—soft ripples on the water, the low hum of boats tied to weathered docks, and the scent of rain-soaked wood and fresh salt air.
Bas pilots the small houseboat with practised ease, a stark contrast to the storm raging inside me. The city looks peaceful, almost serene, but I know better. We’re still running, still hunted.
I sit close beside him, watching his profile as he steers us toward the mooring spot he’s chosen. The weight of the silence between us is heavy, filled with all the things we haven’t said.
I’ve known about Abel since the beginning—the son Bas rarely speaks of but never hides. It’s a quiet ache in his life, one I’ve always respected. But meeting him? That’s still a future we haven’t dared to reach for.
“Amber.” Bas’s voice breaks through the quiet. “This place is small, but it’s safe. For now.”
I nod, tracing the chipped paint on the rail with my fingers. “It’s beautiful.”
He shrugs, eyes scanning the water. “It’s nothing fancy, but it’s home for a few days.”
We moor the boat in a tucked-away canal lined with other houseboats—each one a story, a refuge, a secret.
As Bas jumps onto the dock and ties the ropes, I glance around and mutter, “Okay, why do we keep ending up on boats?”
He grins over his shoulder. “You’re just lucky like that, I guess.”
“It’s been a while since the last one, and I still haven’t recovered,” I say, stepping carefully onto the deck. “I swear I keep expecting sharks.”
“In a Copenhagen canal?” he asks, amused.
“You don’t know what’s down there,” I counter, narrowing my eyes. “They migrate.”
Bas laughs as he climbs back into the cabin. “You’re serious.”
“I’m not saying it’s likely,” I say, brushing past him. “But I’m not taking any chances. I’ve seen movies.”
“You were fine in Amsterdam.”
“Barely. That barge was probably safer than this little bathtub.”
He raises a brow, playful. “So you’re saying I’ve downgraded?”
“I’m saying I’m not built for life on water. Sharks. Seaweed. Things with tentacles.” I shudder dramatically.
He chuckles, stepping closer. “I’ll make you a land girl again soon. No tentacles. Promise.”
“Good,” I say, then glance around the canal with mock suspicion. “Also, why do all your friends seem to own boats? Is this like a secret Dutch-flower-mafia-thing?”
Bas snorts. “No comment.”
I smirk, shaking my head. “Unbelievable. I know florists. We don’t have boats. We have tired feet and carpal tunnel.”
“Guess you’re in the wrong business,” he says with a wink.
“Clearly.”
As we settle in, I pull my hoodie tighter around me, the scent of Bas still lingering. He moves around the small cabin with quiet familiarity, unpacking supplies and lighting a kettle.
I want to ask him everything—the plan, the future, Abel—but the words catch in my throat. Instead, I watch him, this man who’s both so strong and so vulnerable.
“Can you pass me the phone? I want to call Sanne?” Bas finally says, breaking the silence. “I need to check in.”
I nod, handing him the burner phone. I watch his expression tighten as he dials, hearing the sharp tone of his sister’s voice on the other end.
“She’s worried,” I say softly once the call ends.
Bas runs a hand through his damp hair. “She has every right to be.”
I glance around the tiny cabin, feeling the walls close in. “What about Abel?”
Bas’s jaw tightens. “He’s good, no idea about any of this, thank God. Safe, for now.”
“I hope one day I get to meet him,” I say quietly, surprising myself with the honesty.
Bas looks at me, something unreadable in his eyes. “You will. When the time’s right.”
The day drifts away, rain tapping softly against the windows. Later, we sit close on the narrow bench, sharing a quiet dinner by candlelight.
“Amber,” Bas says suddenly, voice low. “I’ve been carrying a lot of guilt. For Marieke. For Abel. And for this… for wanting something again.”
I reach out, taking his hand. “You’re here now. That counts.”
He meets my gaze, blue eyes intense. “You don’t get it. For a long time, it felt wrong to even think about wanting someone else. About wanting you. Like it meant I was leaving her behind.”
“I don’t think that’s how love works,” I say gently.
He pulls in a shaky breath. “Maybe not. But the guilt doesn’t care. It’s like… I lost her, and now I’m still here. And somehow, I’m allowed to feel something again? It messes with my head.”
I pull him closer, letting my fingers brush his. “You’re not doing anything wrong, Bas.”
He lets out a soft laugh that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Tell that to the part of me that still thinks I should be frozen in that moment. Like moving on means erasing her.”
“It doesn’t.”
He studies me, eyes searching. “I want you. And I hate that I feel guilty for it.”
“I’m not here to replace her, truly. She was and will remain a significant part of your life,” I say softly. “But you’re allowed to want something real again.”
He nods slowly, like he’s still not sure if he believes it, but he wants to.
Outside, the city hums quietly, but inside this little houseboat, for once, we find a sliver of peace.
The houseboat rocks gently beneath us, the soft creak of wood against water a steady reminder that we’re far from the chaos—but not from the things we carry.
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 to in 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.