Chapter 49
Amber
The morning sun filters through the big front windows of ‘Wild Ones’, casting a soft glow over the blooms and the worn wooden floorboards.
Light pools on buckets of ranunculus and spills warm across the battered counter where Jess has arranged a chaotic rainbow of ribbon spools—our perfectly imperfect kingdom.
The shop hums in that way it does when a day decides to be kind: the cooler’s hush, the steady beep of the till, the door chiming every so often with someone who needs flowers for joy, apology, hope.
Today feels different—lighter somehow. Maybe it’s the way Bas brought Abel over early, both of them with hair damp from the mist and cheeks pink from the cold.
Perhaps it’s the way my body woke this morning without panic already burning under my skin.
Maybe it’s the tiny pulse of certainty in my chest I can’t quite name.
Bas is in the back room, elbow-deep in soil, potting with an intensity that would be intimidating if it weren’t also endearing.
He’s large everywhere—hands, shoulders, presence—but the way he coaxes roots apart is almost delicate.
Abel sits cross-legged on the floor beside him, surrounded by a fortress of tiny pots and blunt tools he’s declared his “work zone,” a paper crown (courtesy of Jess and a leftover ribbon spool) listing sideways on his knit hat.
“Hey, boss,” Jess calls from the counter, peering past a spray of eucalyptus to where Bas is wrestling an overgrown fern into a pot that is objectively too small. “You sure that’s how you want to handle that, B-man?”
Bas glances up, caught, and offers a sheepish grin. “I’m learning from the best.”
Jess slides me a look like, well, obviously, then points both thumbs at herself. “You mean from me.”
I snort, warmth gathering at the corners of my mouth. Bas huffs a quiet laugh and crouches to Abel’s level. “Come on, little man. Show me how you do it.”
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 on my 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 bell rings 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, heading for 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.”
“You’re fine,” I answer, but neither of us moves.
It would be so easy to step back, to defuse the spark and keep this soft bubble from bursting.
Instead, my hands rest lightly against his chest, on the damp grey of his T-shirt where the outline of his body is heat and promise.
He looks down at me like I’m new every time.
I feel that look in the tips of my fingers, the hollow of my throat, low in my belly where hope has taken root.
“Amber,” he says, and it’s a prayer more than a name.
I don’t know who leans in first. Maybe it’s both of us.
The first brush of his mouth is careful, like he’s asking a question.
I answer with the way I tilt up, with the small sound I can’t swallow, with the way my fingers gather fabric.
He kisses me deeper—slow, intent, no hurry in it, just yes—and something inside me unclenches I didn’t know I’d been clenching.
When we part, we don’t go far. Our foreheads rest together, breaths mingling. The shop is quiet enough to hear the cooler cycle, the street beyond a hush of tyres over wet.
“Come upstairs,” I whisper.
His exhale is somewhere between relief and hunger. He nods.
We lock up—lights low, alarm set, shutter pulled, the last bucket tucked under the sink.
My flat is warm when I push the door open, fairy lights low across the bookshelves, the kettle’s blue glow winking that it could be of service.
My chest does that strange, tender ache it does sometimes when the life I dreamed touches the life I’m in.
I set my keys in the dish. Bas closes the door behind us, then pauses like he’s orienting to this room where he’s been and not been—my couch with its throw blanket, the vase of last week’s ranunculus drooping gracefully, the slip of a world we’re building.
“Do you want tea?” I ask because my mouth hasn’t quite caught up with my heart.
He shakes his head, eyes never leaving mine. “I want you.”
It should sound like a line. It doesn’t. It lands like truth.
I step into him. He meets me halfway. The first kiss in the shop was careful; this one is not.
It’s hungry, aching with the months we lost. He cups my face in his big hands and tips it just so, like he’s memorised the angle of me; I rise on my toes and lose my fingers in his hair and pull it loose of its tie.