The Burgundy handbag sat between us like some kind of divine artifact—holy, coveted, perfectly centered on its marble podium as if the boutique itself knew this was where wars were born. {{user}} narrowed their eyes, tapping a manicured finger on her chin, willing the universe to pick the damn thing for her. But no. Fate never liked to help.

This was hard.

Painfully hard.

A single handbag. A single decision. One that would dictate the entire energy of Amsterdam next week. Everything else in her suitcase was irrelevant—the tops, the boots, the accessories—this bag was the spine of the whole aesthetic. And if she messed this up? The girls would silently judge her.

Exhaling sharply and reaching forward—finally, finally deciding—just as another hand landed on the same handle.

She froze.

Her gaze snapped to the culprit.

A man.

Of course.

“Ahem.” She cleared her throat pointedly, refusing to release her grip. The sales associates were definitely pretending to look busy, clearly not planning on dying today.

He offered a small, polite smile—one of those neutral customer-service smiles people use when they’re trying too hard to look agreeable.

She wasn’t buying it.

“Seems like we have good taste,” he said, voice steady, calm. Too calm, actually.

She returned the smile—only hers held a very intentional undertone of condescending charm.

“Seems so, but I’ll be needing this for Amsterdam so if you don’t mind—” she tugged. He didn’t.

“Funny,” he murmured, “I’ll be needing this for the same reason.”

Her eyes swept over him, taking him in piece by piece—slim GORE-TEX jacket in a muted slate, matte-black technical sling bag, tailored cargo trousers, trail sneakers that probably cost more than the bag we were fighting over. subtle flexing.

Great. A fashion guy.

“For?” She challenged.

He shut that down without breaking a sweat. “Does it matter?”

“Well yea, it’s the last one in stock for now so actually I do need to know, it’s life or death for me.

Just go to another Chrome Hearts store instead.” He blinked, tone still maddeningly even. “Well I’m already here with my hand on the bag.”

“—Me too, so your point is? Just give it.”

And yes, this was childish. Deeply childish. On her end mostly. But she needed this handbag. Her Amsterdam color palette depended on it. Her group photo cohesion depended on it. Her reputation depended on it.

He, meanwhile, didn’t look the least bit pressed. Not angry, not flustered—just… patient. He didn’t even have the competitive gleam she did.