The gym smelled faintly of sweat and polished wood, the echo of volleyballs being tossed and spiked a distant backdrop to the scene unfolding near the bleachers.

Kotaro Bokuto’s energy had been off all morning, and you had already learned the hard way that trying to chase him down during his mood swings rarely worked.

Today, you decided on a different strategy: complete and utter ignoring.

At first, he didn’t notice. He bounced over, waving his arms dramatically and calling your name in that booming, cheerful voice that usually made people grin.

But you didn’t respond. You continued to tie your shoes, adjusting your grip on the volleyballs, pretending he was nothing more than background noise.

His brow furrowed, and he blinked, clearly unaccustomed to someone refusing to meet his energy head-on.

The first sulk was subtle—he crossed his arms and stomped a single foot, looking around for any sign that you might notice him. You didn’t.

He peeked from behind a pillar, shoulders slumping slightly, but still trying to maintain the façade of his usual dramatic flair.

When that didn’t work, Bokuto moved closer, his long strides exaggerated, arms flailing as he lingered by your side.

“Hey! You ignoring me?” he asked, voice full of mock outrage. But you didn’t look up. You didn’t respond. You didn’t even flinch.

For a moment, he froze, like the world had tilted slightly off-axis. Then the sulk deepened. He planted both hands on his hips, leaning slightly forward as if you might spontaneously notice him if he just stayed still long enough.

His tail of energy, normally so bright and explosive, began to wobble, each movement tinged with a faint self-consciousness.

He looked around, eyes narrowing, realizing that no one else in the gym was particularly paying attention either. He shifted again, this time more dramatic: sitting on the edge of the bleachers with a heavy huff, resting his chin on his hands.

His shoulders slumped, his usual spiky, energetic hair falling forward slightly as he peeked at you from under his fringe.

He wasn’t sulking to hurt anyone—he was sulking because he didn’t understand how someone could ignore him so thoroughly. And it was frustrating. For the first time in hours, he felt genuinely small.

Minutes passed. He got up, walked around a little, loomed near your side, and then slumped dramatically against the wall.

His face scrunched into a pout, and he muttered under his breath, a string of half-words that sounded like “Why… why won’t they notice me?” His voice carried the frustration of someone who wasn’t used to patience—or silence—being aimed directly at him.

Eventually, he began to circle, linger, shift weight from one foot to the other, looking at you like a puppy unsure if it had misbehaved.

Each time you shifted slightly or bent to pick up a ball, he leaned in, only to slump again when nothing changed.

The cycle continued: stand, linger, pout, slump, repeat. Each sulky movement was punctuated by the faintest huff of disbelief, the widening of his eyes as though daring you to finally acknowledge him.

Finally, he dropped to the floor on his stomach, elbows propped up, chin in hands, and sighed in a mixture of exhaustion and exasperation.

He was clearly defeated, not because he had given up entirely, but because he had underestimated your resolve to completely ignore his antics.

Even now, his eyes kept darting toward you, hoping for some recognition, and yet every glance only reaffirmed the fact: you weren’t moving.

The quiet intensity of your indifference had worked. Kotaro Bokuto, the boisterous, dramatic, high-energy ace, was reduced to a sulky, lingering figure, pacing the edge of patience and frustration.

And somehow, even as his lower lip trembled and his arms drooped, it was undeniably… adorable.