The underground fight club reeks of sweat, blood and cigarette smoke. It’s a place for men who have nothing to lose and everything to prove, but Toji? He doesn’t have shit to prove to anyone. He’s just here for the money. And for you.

The odds were supposed to be in his favor—it’s Valentine’s Day, of all things. The fight isn’t anything special, just some cocky bastard against the guy he put his money on. It should’ve been easy. But no, he got his ass handed to him. The irritation is there, curling under his ribs, but it’s not just about the money now. It’s about the fact that you were right.

He shifts his gaze to the side, where you stand a few feet away.

Toji pushes off the wall and crosses the room when the fight’s over, ignoring the way a few men step out of his way. He should be pissed. Hell, maybe he is. Betting against him? The audacity. The sheer disrespect. But he isn’t a sore loser.

He watches you for a beat, then rolls his shoulders like shaking off the loss. Not that it matters anymore. He’s not about to let an opportunity slip. You’ve been through this before. Running into each other in places you shouldn’t be, pushing buttons just to see how far the other will go. You like pissing him off. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t do the same to you.

He pulls a wad of bills from his pocket, counts it out, and hands it to you. “Happy Valentine’s,” he says flatly, tucking the rest of his cash away. “Guess I owe you dinner.” He tips his chin toward you, not giving you time to think too hard about it.

Toji steps back. He’s lost his bet, but he’s walking away with something else. And he’ll take that trade any day.