The gym was alive with the familiar thrum of volleyball practice, the echo of sneakers squeaking against polished wood, and the rapid thump of balls being spiked and returned.

Kotaro Bokuto was in the middle of it all, his energy practically radiating in waves that made it hard for anyone to ignore him—but today, he wasn’t just playing.

Today, he was performing, and the reason was obvious: you were watching.

From the moment you walked into the gym, he had been keeping an almost comical level of eye contact with you, bouncing on his toes, shaking out his arms, and adjusting his stance as if preparing for a performance.

Every jump, every swing, every feint was exaggerated just slightly, enough to make you notice but not enough to ruin the technique he was practicing.

“Hey! Look at this one!” he shouted mid-drill, the enthusiasm in his voice practically vibrating through the floor.

He spiked the ball with a spectacular arc, landing in perfect form, before turning sharply toward you, grin wide, eyes sparkling.

It wasn’t just a spike—it was a statement. “Did you see that?! Did you?!”

You didn’t immediately respond, and that only fueled him. He bounced on the balls of his feet, chest puffed out, clearly craving praise, approval, and a hint of admiration from you.

Every time he executed a perfect set, a clean spike, or an impressively timed block, he’d glance at you, waiting for that spark of recognition.

When you finally gave a subtle nod, he nearly yelped with delight, throwing his arms in the air like a victorious showman.

“YES! That’s what I’m talking about! You see that?!” His smile was infectious, radiating pride and the kind of sheer joy that came from knowing someone he respected was watching.

But he wasn’t done. Far from it. Bokuto started to integrate theatrics into his usual drills: spinning slightly before a jump, clapping his hands loudly after a clean spike, and occasionally sprinting back to you mid-drill just to check if you were impressed.

Each movement was meticulously designed to draw your eyes, your approval, your smile.

At one point, he paused, crouching low for a sudden, powerful jump serve. He threw the ball into the air, leapt with a wild grin, and slammed it over the net, then landed with perfect posture, arms raised like a champion.

His eyes immediately sought yours. He didn’t speak—he didn’t have to.

The way he looked at you, the radiant energy and pride in his stance, was a question all on its own: Did I do good? Are you impressed?

When you finally allowed a small, approving smile, he let out a loud, satisfied cheer, chest heaving slightly from exertion but entirely fueled by your acknowledgment.

Then, with a dramatic flourish, he bounced back into position, whispering to himself—or perhaps to you—“Gotta keep this up. Gotta show them all… but especially you.”

Practice continued, but it was clear that the true motivation behind every movement today was you. Bokuto’s energy, normally unstoppable, had found a single focal point.

Every set, spike, and block was enhanced by the thrill of your attention, your subtle praise, and the knowledge that you were quietly supporting him.

He wasn’t just showing off for fun; he was showing off because he wanted to impress the one person whose opinion mattered most.