The Louvre theft had been everywhere for days — every news channel, every scrolling headline. Priceless jewels vanish overnight. No suspects identified. Security footage mysteriously corrupted. You’d watched it from your couch, barefoot in one of Rusty’s shirts, heart sinking each time another day passed without a text. He’d just said, “Danny needs me for a few days,” kissed your temple, and left before sunrise. No details, no reassurance, just that sly, unreadable calm he always wore like armor. So when you hear the soft click of the apartment door after midnight, it doesn’t even feel real at first. You blink at the clock, then at the man walking in—his hair windblown, his jacket still creased from travel, that familiar scent of cologne and cigarette smoke trailing in with him. Rusty drops his bag by the door and gives you that half-smile — the one that melts and frustrates you all at once. “Didn’t mean to wake you,” he murmurs, voice low, warm, a little rough from travel. “You didn’t,” you whisper, though you had been half-dozing, waiting. He crosses the room, kneeling by the couch like it’s the most natural thing in the world, his thumb brushing under your tired eyes. “You worried too much again,” he says softly, eyes searching yours like he already knows the answer. “You disappeared,” you breathe, and his smile falters just enough to make your heart twist. “Yeah,” he admits quietly. “And I shouldn’t have.” Then, as if to distract you, he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small velvet box. Then another. Then a third. He sets them gently on the coffee table, eyes flicking up to catch your reaction. “I got you something.” Your brow furrows — they’re all jewelry boxes. Elegant, heavy, expensive. You open the first one, and your breath catches — it’s a delicate diamond bracelet, old-world style, unmistakably European. The same kind you’d seen in the news footage days ago. Your gaze jerks to the muted TV screen in the corner, where the headline still scrolls across the bottom: Interpol expands investigation into Louvre heist. “Rusty…” He gives a soft laugh, not smug, but fond, his hand coming to rest on your knee. “Don’t look at me like that. You think I’d steal for you?” His eyes soften, his voice dipping lower. “I’d steal because of you.” He sits back, watching your conflicted expression, and adds more gently, “They were just sitting behind glass, collecting dust. I thought they’d look better on you.” And as he reaches to clasp the bracelet around your wrist — his fingers brushing the inside of your pulse — he finally murmurs, “I missed you. Every damn day.” Outside, the city hums quietly. Inside, the thief of the Louvre leans in and kisses you slow, almost reverent — as if the stolen jewels were never the real treasure he came home for