Chapter 36 Amber
Amber
By the time the last of the daylight fades behind the trees, I’ve spent the entire day feeling the edges of Bas’s distance like splinters I can’t quite pull out.
When I woke this morning, he was lying beside me, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. At first, I thought he’d just been awake for a few minutes, but the look in his eyes told me different—the stillness in his body, the faint crease between his brows.
It didn’t take long to guess what had happened. He didn’t have to say the word “nightmare” for me to know.
He’s told me about that night before—about Marieke’s contractions starting normally, how everything had been fine until Abel’s oxygen dropped dangerously low.
How they rushed her out, shoved scrubs into his hands, and then there’s just a blank.
Nothing until he was on the floor with his parents, knowing she was gone.
I’ve heard the story before, but hearing it in the low, uneven way he told it this morning still made my chest ache. I could picture it. The alarms. The chaos. The moment it all shifted from normal to catastrophe.
And now, hours later, the shadow of it is still with him.
He’s on the sofa in front of the fire, one arm stretched along the backrest, gaze fixed on the flames like they might hold the answers he’s looking for. His profile is lit by the firelight, the sharp lines of his jaw and cheekbone casting shadows.
I take the seat beside him, curling my legs underneath me. I don’t say anything at first. The fire cracks, the logs shift, and he doesn’t look away from them.
“Bas?” I say softly, my voice breaking the quiet.
He turns his head, and there it is again—that shadowed look, that heaviness in his eyes.
“Yeah?” he answers, voice low, roughened by a day of not saying much at all.
“You’re here,” I tell him quietly, “but it’s like you’re not really here.”
Something tightens in his jaw. His arm shifts back slightly from the sofa cushion, putting the smallest sliver of distance between us.
“I’m scared, Amber,” he says finally, and the way he says it is like it’s pulled straight from somewhere deep. “Scared of losing you. Scared of what this whole mess means for us.”
My throat tightens. I know fear. I’ve felt it too—in different ways, for different reasons. But his fear has years behind it, ghosts behind it.
“I’m scared too,” I admit, reaching for his hand. His palm is warm, tense. “But I want to fight for us. For whatever this is.”
His eyes lift to mine, and for a heartbeat there’s something there—not quite hope, not quite surrender, just the brief flicker of both.
“But only if you want me, too,” I add softly. “I can’t be the only one fighting.”
His gaze darkens, the doubt settling in. “I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t know if I can let go of her. You deserve someone who can give you their everything.”
The name doesn’t have to be spoken. It’s there in the air between us—Marieke.
“You won’t hurt me,” I say, firmer now. “But I need you to want this. To want me. Because I want you.”
He swallows, the movement in his throat tight, deliberate. “I want you. I do. But sometimes I wonder if I deserve you.”
That pulls something deep in my chest. I lift my hand to brush hair from his forehead, letting my fingers linger just long enough to make the point.
“You do,” I tell him. “We all have ghosts, Bas. What matters is if we choose to face them.”
His eyes close briefly, and when they open again, there’s a rawness there that makes me want to hold him even tighter.
“I’m afraid, Amber,” he breathes again, quieter now, as though lowering his voice might make the truth hurt less. “Afraid that if I love you, I’ll lose you too. And I don’t know if I can survive that.”
I shift closer until my thigh rests against his, my head finding its place on his shoulder. His scent—sandalwood, smoke, that faint soap he uses—wraps around me, grounding me.
“Then we fight the fear,” I whisper. “Together.”
His arm comes around me slowly, like he’s not sure it’s allowed, but when it settles, it’s solid. I rest my palm against his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heartbeat beneath my hand.
We stay like that for a while, the fire’s crackle filling the silence.
Later, he tells me a story about something ridiculous Sander once did, and I laugh—not because it’s that funny, but because the sound of it feels like a rebellion against the heaviness of the day. For a few minutes, the wall between us thins.
Then the quiet returns, softer but still present.
I slide my hand into his where it rests on the sofa, my fingers threading through his. I squeeze gently—not demanding anything, not offering empty comfort, just letting him know I’m still here.
He squeezes back, slow but sure.
We don’t have all the answers. We don’t know what tomorrow will bring. But tonight, his hand is in mine, and neither of us lets go.
And for now, that’s enough.