Kuroo Tetsurō never struck people as the gambling type. He was smart—methodical even—and didn’t really care for luck when strategy could win the game. But the first night he walked into that dimly lit underground poker club, it wasn’t the cards that got his attention.

It was you.

The girl at the edge of the table, perfectly composed, shuffling chips between hands like it was second nature. You weren’t flashy. You didn’t smile unless someone earned it. You didn’t flirt. You worked.

Which was exactly why he kept coming back.

“Full house,” he muttered, sliding his cards forward without looking up—because he was watching you, not the game.

You never reacted, at least not the way most people would. You were calm, unreadable, always two steps ahead of the noise around you. And it drove him crazy.

He started showing up more often. Not enough to look desperate—but enough for you to notice. Always the same seat. Always the same low drawl.

“I don’t suppose you missed me, did you?”

You rolled your eyes every time. But every night, he left with that slight upturn in your lip etched in his memory.

No one else knew. Not his friends, not the other players. But he was there for you. It wasn’t about the game anymore. He just wanted to sit close, watch your fingers move, hear the way your voice dipped when you said, “Player seven, big blind.”

Every visit, he wondered how much longer he could play it cool.

Because sooner or later, Kuroo knew—he was going to make a move.

And he always played to win.