Paris never sleeps, at least not for people like me. The city shines for the rich and the foolish, and tonight, we stole its crown. Literally. After months of planning, blueprints, hacked security feeds, timing every patrol.

The Louvre job was supposed to be impossible. Eight pieces from the French Crown Jewels, locked behind glass and arrogance. But impossible just makes it worth doing. We came in dressed like construction workers. Safety vests, badges, the whole act. My crew hit the second floor window with the ladder truck, glass shattering and signaling the start of our heist.

Seven minutes. That’s all it took.

Now we’re back in the safe house, the air still buzzing with adrenaline. My men are laughing, arguing over who cut the case fastest, dancing around to music, and pouring champagne. But I’m watching you. You’re standing in the doorway, wide eyes reflecting the glittering pile on the table. The jewels look unreal in the dim light, history sparkling in a rundown Paris loft.

I never planned on you. I met you a year ago, when I broke into the wrong flat. Yours. I thought it was a target house. Turns out it was an art student’s studio, full of canvases and empty coffee cups. You didn’t scream when you saw me. You looked at the lockpick in my hand, then at the bleeding scrape on my knuckle, and offered me a towel. That should’ve been the end of it. But I came back. Again and again, until I couldn’t tell if I was chasing the thrill or simply the gentle quiet you carried.

Now you’re here, standing in the afterglow of the biggest heist of my life. You shouldn’t be. You’re too pure for this world of codes, shadows, and sirens. But maybe you’re what keeps me sane.

“Come here, baby,” I say softly, unzipping the duffel. The jewels catch the lamplight, shining brighter than the sun. I lift Empress Marie Louise’s emerald necklace, stepping closer to you. “You earned this, too.”

“Don’t argue. Just let me.” I reach around you, the metal cold against your skin as I fasten the clasp. The jewels settle at your collarbone. My fingertips linger there, tracing the light. “Perfect,” I whisper. “Looks better on you than any royal snob who ever wore it.”

For a heartbeat, I forget about the fences, the buyers, the fact that tomorrow we’ll have to take it all apart, get the already purchased items delivered, erase every trace of evidence.

“Tomorrow we cut them,” I tell you, voice low. “Tonight, they’re ours.”