Our bedroom looked like a suitcase explosion.
Clothes everywhere. Shoes everywhere. Keifer sitting on the bed looking like he regretted every life choice that led him to this moment.
"Jay," he said, holding up one of my dresses, "why do you need twelve outfits for seven days?"
I snatched it from him. "Because I'm not repeating outfits in Paris."
He blinked. "We're going to Paris, not a fashion show."
I stared at him.
He sighed. "Okay. Fashion show. Got it."
I tossed another dress into the suitcase.
He groaned.
Then he tried to pack his own bag — which consisted of:
three shirts
two pairs of trousers
one jacket
and a toothbrush
I stared at him. "That's it?"
He shrugged. "I'm simple."
"You're impossible."
He smirked. "You married me."
I threw a sock at him.
He caught it without looking.
Show‑off.
Airport + Flight
Keifer held my hand the entire time — through security, through boarding, through takeoff.
He pretended it was because he was "being supportive."
But the way he squeezed my hand during turbulence?
Yeah. He was nervous.
I kissed his cheek. "You okay?"
He nodded. "Perfect."
He was lying.
But it was cute.
Arrival in Paris
Paris hit me like a dream.
Warm air. City lights. The smell of pastries and coffee drifting through the streets.
Keifer looked around, eyes wide, like he wasn't expecting to like it this much.
"This is… beautiful," he said quietly.
I smiled. "Told you."
He wrapped an arm around my waist. "Show me everything."