Chapter 5:
The honeymoon started with laughter.
Paris was alive in every corner—the smell of fresh croissants wafting from the bakeries, the Seine sparkling under the late afternoon sun, couples hand in hand whispering in languages Jay couldn't even recognize. And right in the middle of it all were Jay and Keifer—married, 18, and utterly inseparable.
Keifer had his arm draped over her shoulder as they walked, but it wasn't just protective—it was possessive, a quiet claim that screamed mine. Every few steps, he would dip his head low to murmur something only she could hear.
"Jay," his voice was low, teasing, "you do realize you're too distracting to actually enjoy Paris properly?"
She rolled her eyes, though her cheeks warmed. "Distracting? I'm literally just walking."
"Exactly." His lips brushed her ear, and she stiffened. "Even breathing, you drive me crazy."
Jay tried to shove him away, but he only laughed, tugging her close until she bumped against his side. And that was how their honeymoon went: Keifer unable to keep his lips off her, stealing kisses at the most inopportune times.
At the top of the Eiffel Tower, as Jay was admiring the view, Keifer slid behind her, his chin resting on her shoulder. "Forget Paris," he murmured, kissing the sensitive skin beneath her ear. "You're the only sight worth looking at."
At the Louvre, while everyone else admired the Mona Lisa, Keifer leaned in to whisper, "She's overrated. My wife's smile is better."
Jay swatted at him, blushing furiously, but he only grinned, kissing the corner of her lips right there in front of a crowd of tourists.
And then there were the quieter, more dangerous moments. At a café near Montmartre, he kissed her until the waiter awkwardly cleared his throat. On a boat ride along the Seine, his fingers tangled with hers, tracing patterns on her skin until she gasped softly, earning that smug smile he wore so well.
By the third day, Jay gave up pretending to be annoyed. Keifer was impossible. She knew it. He knew it.
"Keif," she scolded lightly one evening when he backed her against a stone wall near the glowing street lamps of Rue Saint-Honoré, kissing her breathless. "We're in public!"
"And?" His lips curved against hers. "Paris is the city of love. They should thank us for giving them a show."
"Keifer!" she hissed, though her laughter betrayed her.
"Jay," he whispered, his tone suddenly softer, more vulnerable as his forehead pressed to hers. "I've waited years to love you like this. Years to call you mine without hiding, without fear. So forgive me if I don't stop touching you. I can't."
Her heart ached in the best way. She kissed him then—not caring who saw, not caring if Paris burned around them—because Keifer Watson was hers. And she was his.
That night, when they returned to their hotel suite overlooking the Seine, Keifer scooped her into his arms with a smirk.
"You know," he teased, eyes dark with want and love, "we still haven't tested if Parisian beds are as romantic as everyone claims."
Jay buried her face in his neck, groaning. "You're impossible."
He kissed her temple, carrying her inside. "No, Jay. I'm yours. Always."