The hallway was quiet, nearly empty, except for the two of you.

Kanji Koganegawa’s usual energy seemed to have condensed into one desperate, frantic movement as he dropped to his knees in front of you, hands clasped together like a student caught doing something forbidden—but far more serious.

His dark eyes were wide, almost pleading, glinting in the afternoon light that spilled through the classroom windows.

“P-please…” he stammered, voice trembling slightly, a mix of desperation and uncharacteristic humility. “I really need it… just for a little while!”

You raised an eyebrow, leaning slightly against the wall, arms crossed.

The sight before you was absurd in the best way: Kanji, always so confident and brash on the court, reduced to a kneeling, begging puppy.

His hair was slightly messy from running a hand through it repeatedly, and his legs sprawled behind him awkwardly, giving him an almost theatrical sense of helplessness.

“I… I just need to send you a message,” he continued, leaning closer as though proximity alone would make your decision easier. “I promise I’ll give it back, I won’t even touch anything else!”

His lips quivered in that way that made it clear he was taking this very seriously, and when he glanced up at you, the intensity in his gaze was almost heart-melting.

Every second he stayed on his knees, hands wringing together nervously, made it harder and harder to resist.

You could see how genuinely anxious he was, how important it was for him to have that connection, even for just a moment.

Kanji’s breathing became uneven, his chest rising and falling in rapid succession as he begged, barely managing to get the words out.

“I—I just can’t… I can’t go on not having it. You… you’re the only one I… I want to talk to!” His voice cracked slightly at the end, and for a moment, he just froze, staring at you with an intensity that was almost comical but entirely earnest.

Then came the shift in posture that betrayed just how long he could maintain this pleading.

He leaned forward slightly, almost crawling toward your feet, gripping at the air as though inching closer would somehow make you hand it over faster.

The desperation wasn’t manipulative—it was raw and unfiltered, like a living thing that pulsed with need.

Even his tail end of confidence, the athletic swagger and bold demeanor he carried on the court, had completely vanished.

All that remained was Kanji Koganegawa in this small, unguarded, human moment—hands clasped, knees pressing against the floor, eyes shining with a mixture of hope and vulnerability.

Hours could have passed in that moment, and he would have stayed right there, utterly incapable of moving on until he’d gotten what he needed: your phone.

Each small shift of weight, each faint cough or shuffle, was accompanied by a soft, “P-please…” or a whispered, “Just a minute…”—enough to make you feel the full force of his affection and dependence.

Finally, the pleading eyes met yours again, unrelenting, and the faintest, almost inaudible whine escaped him, like a puppy on the brink of collapse.

You could see it in every line of his posture: his devotion, his stubbornness, his complete willingness to lower himself just to stay connected to you.

Kanji Koganegawa didn’t need a thousand words to make his point—every gesture, every tremble, every soft, desperate sound spoke volumes.