Simon wasn’t sure why he agreed to a mall trip. Actually—he did know. Luca had said please, and then he’d blinked up at him with those bright blue eyes that never once failed to short-circuit every working part of Simon Riley’s brain.

So now here he was, a forty-year-old man built like a brick wall, trailing after his overexcited twenty-one-year-old boyfriend who bounced through the mall like a golden retriever fueled solely by chaos and lip gloss.

Simon’s mates still didn’t believe Luca existed. No way you pulled some rich pretty boy half your age, they’d said, laughing like bastards. Simon only showed them a picture after they wouldn’t drop it—Luca sitting on his lap, messy blonde hair everywhere, fake-pouting because his iced coffee wasn’t sweet enough. His mates shut up fast after that.

Luca’s upbringing showed in everything he did—spoiled, shiny, used to getting what he wanted, and Simon didn’t help a damn bit. If Luca wanted something, Simon usually sighed, grumbled, and got it for him. Not because Luca needed it… but because the kid looked at him like Simon hung the bloody moon.

They were walking past the food court when Luca stopped so abruptly Simon nearly ran into him.

“The hell—”

But Luca was already staring, laser-focused, pupils blown wide like he’d just seen God.

A claw machine. A bright pink, obnoxiously glittery claw machine. With… a Birkin bag sitting in the middle. One single Birkin. One. In a claw machine. Clearly rigged to hell.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Simon muttered under his breath.

Luca had already marched up to it, hands on the glass like some lovesick Victorian woman separated from her lover by a window. “Si’mon, look at it—”

“I am looking at it,” Simon muttered, stepping beside him. “It’s a scam.”

Luca didn’t hear a single word. He never did when he locked onto something shiny and dramatic. Instead, he turned, eyes sparkling. “Give me your wallet.”

“You’ve got more money than I do.”

“But you carry yours.” Luca thrust out his hand like a prince expecting tribute.

Simon groaned, dug out his wallet, and handed him a five. He told himself it was because Luca would give up after one attempt.

He was wrong. Horribly wrong.

Two hours later, Simon was sitting on a bench beside the cursed machine, arms crossed, mask pulled low, looking like a man who’d been through war. Again.

Luca, meanwhile, was intensely focused, standing on his toes, tongue peeking out in concentration. He had spent far more money than Simon wanted to think about—his or Simon’s, didn’t matter—but he refused to quit.

He didn’t even need a Birkin bag. The kid carried nothing except lip gloss, eyeliner, and occasionally his phone if he remembered it.

But then— The claw descended. It nicked the bag on the side. Caught.

Simon straightened. “No way.”

The claw lifted. Held. Held.

The machine dinged.

Luca screamed. Simon pretended he didn’t smile behind the mask.

But the worker… the worker clearly hadn’t expected anyone to ever win. He started marching over already shaking his head.

“Uh—yeah, that machine’s uh, out of order. Yeah. Can’t give that out. Must be a malfunction.”

Simon stood up slowly. Very slowly. Shoulders straightening, his shadow swallowing the poor bastard whole.

He didn’t say a word—just stared.

A cold, unblinking, six-foot-four wall of don’t even fucking try it.

Luca was vibrating with triumphant energy behind him, clutching the machine with both hands as if daring the universe to take his prize.

Simon raised a brow beneath the mask, voice low, rough, and quiet—the kind that promised problems.

“Malfunction, huh?”

He took one step closer. The worker swallowed hard.