All The Summers After | TSITP | Sequel

Suitcases & Snowflakes.

It was already dark outside when Conrad pushed open the apartment door, his scarf half-undone and his hair damp from the winter drizzle. Paris in December smelled like roasted chestnuts and cold stone; their apartment smelled like cinnamon candles and Lydia.

He kicked off his boots, shaking his shoulders loose after a long hospital shift.

"Lyd?" he called, voice warm.

"Bedroom!" she answered—but the tone was suspiciously chaotic.

He followed the sound, and when he reached their room, he stopped dead.

Because Lydia Conklin was standing in the middle of the room, surrounded by clothes.

Not neatly folded clothes. Not logically arranged outfits. But piles. Mountains. A warzone made of sweaters. And she was holding up three suitcases at once.

He blinked.

"Uhhh... are we packing from now?" he asked incredulously.

She turned, eyes wide, hair tied up in a high ponytail, one sweater half tucked into her shoulder.

"Yes," she said with deadly seriousness. "We leave in a week, Conrad."

"... A week."

"Yes."

"You're packing today."

"Yes."

He stared at her for a long time.

She stared back, defensive as hell.

Then—

He smirked. "God, I love you."

She threw a sock at his face. "Help me choose a suitcase."

He obediently stepped forward, slipping off his coat and rolling up his sleeves like he was entering battle.

"Okay," he said. "Option one: this looks like you're moving permanently."

"I'm not."

"I know," he said gently, "because I'd notice if half your closet disappeared."

She squinted at him. "Flattery will get you nowhere."

"Yes it will," he said. "It always does."

She blushed like she always did when he got cocky, then lifted a smaller suitcase. "What about this one?"

"That's carry-on sized," he said. "You can fit like... two sweaters."

"I'll wear the rest."

"You'll die of heatstroke in the airport."

She shoved him lightly. "I LIKE layers."

"Well, I like you alive."

"Conrad—"

"We're taking the medium one," he declared, tapping it with his foot. "Compromise."

She crossed her arms. "Hmph. Fine."

He kissed her cheek, dragged the suitcase onto the bed, and opened it.

She started sorting clothes into piles. He immediately ruined them.

"Stop messing up my system!!" she whined, grabbing the sweaters he'd just reordered.

"You don't HAVE a system," he said. "You have... chaos."

"It's a system only I understand."

He held up a green sweater she loved most. "You're definitely bringing this."

She tossed him a grateful glance. "Yeah."

"And your cream scarf."

"Obviously."

"And—" he lifted her fuzzy blue socks "—these. Because you always forget them."

Her mouth dropped open. "I DO always forget them."

"I know." he winked.

She sighed dramatically and jumped onto the bed beside him, sitting cross-legged. "Okay, so... we need gifts."

He groaned softly, but lovingly. "God. The Fisher-Conklin holiday gift marathon."

She started listing on her fingers:

"Laurel..."

"Easy," he said. "Book."

"Adam..."

"A new fishing kit."

"Taylor..."

Lydia snorted.

"Chaos. We'll find something glittery."

"Steven..."

"Boxing gloves," Conrad said.

"Jere..."

"Literally anything he can eat."

"Belly..."

"Candles. She loves candles."

"Denise..."

"Oh, she's easy," Lydia said, smiling. "Everything I like, she likes."

"And John," Conrad added softly.

Lydia's expression softened too — the weight of love and memory settling gently between them.

"Yeah," she whispered. "John."

Conrad took her hand and squeezed. "We'll find something perfect."

She swallowed, nodding.

Then — like Lydia always did — she brightened, flipping the mood like a switch she'd mastered long ago.

"Okay," she said, brushing away the wobble in her voice. "So we're going shopping tomorrow."

"Yes ma'am."

"And we're packing all week."

"Yes boss."

"And we're leaving EARLY so we can get breakfast before the flight."

"Yes, dictator."

She narrowed her eyes. "Do you want to live?"

He laughed — real, warm, belly-deep — pulling her into his lap effortlessly.

"I do," he murmured, kissing her shoulder. "Always."

She melted instantly, looping her arms around his neck. "We're gonna have the best Christmas," she whispered.

"We always do," he said into her hair. "Especially when we're with the people we love."

She kissed him softly.

He kissed her back.

And the half-packed suitcase lay forgotten as they tumbled backward onto the bed, laughing, limbs tangled, absolutely lost in each other.

Their version of home — all softness, all warmth, all second chances — right here in a Paris apartment filled with love.