I don’t think she ever realized how serious I was about her.

One second she was in my arms — warm, radiant, hers. And the next, gone. No note, no warning. Just the echo of our last argument bouncing off the walls and the sharp, cold silence that followed. She was jealous, and maybe I didn’t handle it right. Maybe I should’ve chased her the moment she turned away instead of letting my pride talk louder than my heart.

But when I woke up the next morning to an empty bed, I knew. She wasn’t just upset. She was gone.

So, I did what anyone completely, unapologetically, desperately in love would do. I hired them all. 1,000 men. 150 private investigators. Every favor I’ve ever been owed, every contact in every city, every camera, every whisper in every back alley. I used it all. Some called it insane. I called it love.

I wasn’t letting her vanish — not when she still wore the necklace I gave her, not when she still had a piece of me in her eyes. And when I found her… curled up in some nameless hotel in some nameless town, with her phone shut off and her walls built high… I didn’t knock.

I walked in, knelt in front of her, and said, “Was running away easier than talking to me, baby?” Her eyes welled up. Mine already had. “I would burn the whole damn world to find you. And you thought I’d just let you go?”

I don’t care how far she runs. She’s mine. And I will always, always find her.