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.
I stay there a while, listening to the steady thud of his heart behind me. Safe. It’s not a word I trust anymore, not entirely. But here, in this cabin with him, I start to believe it might be real. Even if only for a little while.
Eventually I slip from the bed as quietly as I can, careful not to disturb him.
The floor creaks beneath my feet as I pad across the cabin and flick on the kettle.
The scent of last night’s candle still lingers in the air—vanilla and something floral.
A poor attempt at comfort, maybe, but it helped.
I find the vintage ‘Scrabble’ Bas pulled out yesterday, tucked behind a stack of old recipe books.
We played a few lazy rounds before bed—nothing serious, just enough to make fun of each other’s spelling and debate whether ‘snog’ was a real word in English and Dutch.
Bas declared himself the reigning champion. I declared it rigged.
I’m laying out the board again now—determined to win properly this time—just setting the first rack of letters when I hear the rustle of blankets and a low, sleepy groan.
Bas appears in the doorway, hair rumpled, hoodie hanging off one shoulder, and his glasses in one hand.
He slips them on as he yawns, then blinks down at the table with a crooked smile.
“Starting without me?” His voice is thick with sleep and rougher than usual.
I hand him a steaming mug. “Tea. And yes. I’m getting my revenge for last night.”
He raises an eyebrow as he drops into the seat across from me. “You didn’t even lose.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I say, pretending to stretch my neck like an athlete. “I’m still emotionally recovering from the ‘Sanne-is-allowed-but-Amber-is-not’ rule.”
He smirks, lips brushing the rim of his mug. “Scrabble law is harsh but fair.”
I glance up at him over my own cup. “Also, you putting on your glasses to play? Cheating.”
His brow lifts. “How’s that cheating?”
“You look good in them. Distractingly good.”
Bas chuckles, leaning back a little, smug. “So your strategy is to accuse me of weaponised handsomeness?”
“It’s working, isn’t it?”
We fall into the game with surprising ease. The tension that’s been simmering under the surface for days doesn’t vanish, but it loosens. Between laughter and small sips of tea, I start to feel like we’re stealing something normal back.
Our knees bump beneath the table. Bas doesn’t pull away. Neither do I.
After a while, I play a high-scoring word and grin at him. “That brings me to—”
“—still losing,” he mutters, peering at the scoreboard.
“You’re just mad I’m smarter.”
“I’m not mad,” he says, leaning in until his nose brushes mine. “I’m aroused and betrayed.”
I laugh and shake my head. “God, you’re ridiculous.”
He nudges his tile rack aside. “We should call a draw. Before you gloat yourself into exile.”
“I’d survive.”
“You wouldn’t like it,” he says, standing and stretching his arms above his head. “It’s cold out there. No tea. No spare hoodies.”
“No Scrabble.”
“No me.”
He says it lightly, but it lands heavier than he probably means it to.
I stand too, the game forgotten between us now. I cross to the small sink and pour more water into the kettle.
“Hey,” Bas says behind me. I turn, and he’s watching me with that unreadable look of his—the one that says he’s balancing ten thoughts at once.
His voice is low when he speaks again. “Come shower with me.”
I freeze for half a second. Not because I’m afraid—but because I wasn’t expecting tenderness wrapped in something so simple. I nod.
The cabin’s tiny bathroom barely fits the two of us, but it doesn’t matter. The water takes a while to warm, sputtering at first before turning steady. Steam curls around us, and the air goes thick with the scent of soap and skin and heat.
He washes my hair gently, fingers dragging slowly through the curls, and I close my eyes, letting the tension melt away. I run my hands over his chest, across the scars hidden deep beneath the surface, ones I’ve only traced in shadows until now.
When we step out, towels wrapped tight, Bas pulls me into him without a word. His hands are warm on my back. He kisses my shoulder, my collarbone, the corner of my mouth. Nothing demanding. Just there. Present.
Later, we crawl back beneath the covers, skin still damp, bodies tangled.
“I sold a painting once,” he murmurs against my hair.
“Yeah?”
“The sea. Just… blue and grey and white. I didn’t think much of it. Sanne bought it before I could second-guess myself.”
“That’s so lovely,” I say, genuinely touched. “You sell your work, Bas, I know people would buy it.”
He shrugs but doesn’t look away. “Maybe I will.”
There’s a softness to his voice that wasn’t there yesterday. A loosening. A willingness to hope.
There’s a pause. Then, “You feel like home.”
I close my eyes. My throat tightens, and tears prick my eyes, but I don’t speak. I just take his hand in mine and squeeze, then press a kiss to his wrist and place it over my heart.
For now, we don’t need anything else. The world outside is still a threat, but in here—in this quiet, hidden place—we’re just two people choosing each other.
And maybe that’s enough.
But as I lie there, curled against him, I feel it pressing at the edges of my heart—the truth of what we’ve stepped into. This isn’t just some passing thing. It’s not a distraction from the danger or a comfort in the quiet. It’s real. Raw. Entirely unexpected.
And I’m scared, too. Not of him. Not even of the road ahead. But of what it will do to me if I lose this—lose him—after finally feeling what it’s like to be seen. To be held not because someone had to, but because they wanted to. Because he wants me.
He’s right beside me, and still I feel that ache—the ache of wanting time to freeze, just for a little while, so we can live in this safety a little longer.
His hand tightens around mine as if he hears the thought echo through me. And maybe he does.
I press a kiss to his chest and whisper into the hush between us, “I’ve never felt anything like this.”
Bas doesn’t answer, not with words. Just the steady rise and fall of his breathing, his arm pulling me closer, and the weight of something unspoken settling around us like a vow.
I let myself believe in it, even just for tonight.