Chapter Text
Vegeta
Vegeta did not stare.
He assessed—as he always had. But the habit betrayed him now.
Kakarot stood a few paces away, listening to someone else speak, posture loose but no longer careless.
Time had reshaped him. The boy Vegeta had first known—all reckless limbs and unearned confidence—was gone. This man carried himself with a gravity that showed in the tired lines bracketing his eyes, lines no amount of rest ever seemed to erase. They spoke of early mornings, responsibility, restraint. Of endurance.
His hair—absurd, defiant—had been tamed for once, dragged into some semblance of order, though several spikes still rebelled stubbornly, as if refusing to forget who he was.
Vegeta’s gaze caught there longer than it should have. Even now, Kakarot resisted being fully contained.
Broad shoulders filled out his frame, solid and unmistakably powerful. He would have towered over the youth Vegeta once dismissed so easily.
That realization struck harder than expected. Kakarot had grown—not just stronger, but into himself—and Vegeta felt the quiet, unwelcome weight of years press in around his ribs.
This was not nostalgia.
This was something sharper.
Vegeta looked away first, jaw tightening, as if the act of seeing too clearly had cost him something.
Goku PoV
Goku had learned not to try and read Vegeta’s face.
The eyes, though—those were impossible to ignore.
Steel-grey. Always grey. Not cold, exactly, but dense—layered, turbulent, like a storm held in permanent suspension. They didn’t reveal themselves; they overtook. When Vegeta looked at him, Goku felt as though something immense had shifted direction, even if nothing outwardly changed.
It was unsettling. It always had been.
Vegeta’s body was as disciplined as ever—unchanged by time in a way that felt almost unreal. He had never softened, never faltered. Illness, exhaustion, age—none of it had left a visible mark. Muscle held tight under controlled stillness, every movement deliberate, economical. Iron made flesh.
And yet.
There was something almost unfairly supple about him, too. A tension that didn’t repel, but drew the eye back again and again. Goku felt it in his chest before he understood it—an awareness, a pull, a quiet alarm he’d learned to silence long ago.
Vegeta’s gaze flicked to him then—just briefly—and Goku’s hand betrayed him, trembling faintly at his side before he could stop it.
He hoped Vegeta hadn’t seen.
He knew, somehow, that he had.
Vegeta PoV
Kakarot’s Garage
Vegeta stopped mid-step, his chest tightening as his eyes caught Kakarot’s hand—just a flicker, a tremor that shouldn’t have been there. His heart thudded, strangely loud in the quiet room. So that’s it.
Years of restraint, of holding himself apart, of denying even the smallest thought of desire… it all slammed against this tiny, painful admission. Kakarot had been suffering—long before Vegeta had even allowed himself to notice. Every careful distance, every proud refusal, every “I’m fine” and “I don’t need you” now rang hollow.
Vegeta’s jaw clenched. He wanted to roar, to crush the world for its timing, for its cruelty—but he couldn’t. Not here, not now. Kakarot looked up, oblivious, serene in his own way, and yet that small twitch betrayed him. It’s like he could have wanted this whole time.
Anger rose first—cold, precise, burning under the skin. Then grief, slow and inexorable. He could wish to turn back time, undo every misstep, every moment they had lost—but it was gone. All that remained was now: Kakarot before him, trembling in the smallest, most human way, and Vegeta’s own body, trained for war but trembling in a different sort of battle.
He took a step closer, careful, measured, and felt the shift in the air between them. It was charged, electric, full of everything unspoken. Vegeta’s voice was low, steady, betraying nothing, yet weighted with years of hunger and regret. Not everything is yours to claim, Kakarot… but I see you now.
Goku PoV
Goku’s stomach knotted the moment he felt Vegeta’s step closer. His hand, the one that had betrayed him, trembled slightly—not from fear of Vegeta’s strength, but from the weight of recognition. Every practiced, casual motion of his body now felt exposed.
He tried to mask it, to straighten, to breathe normally—but the tiniest twitch betrayed him. Vegeta’s eyes caught it, and Goku knew immediately: he had been seen, completely, in a way no one ever had.
Panic clawed at the edges of his composure. I’m not supposed to feel this. Not now. Not like this. Yet the flush in his chest, the heat at the base of his neck, was undeniable. His whole body reacted before his mind could rationalize.
He looked up at Vegeta, searching for any hint that he had imagined it, but found only that cold, piercing gaze—the one that had always unnerved him, now carrying something far more personal. Goku’s throat tightened. He wanted to speak, to say something trivial, anything—but no words could bridge the gulf between years of desire and this sudden, unavoidable awareness.
So he did nothing. He froze, and let the quiet ache settle over him, knowing that in this moment, the balance of power had shifted, even if nothing would change outwardly.
~~
Alcohol
~~
Bulma and Vegeta’s Beachside House – Patio
Vegeta leaned against the railing of the patio, the ocean stretching like liquid silver in the fading light. The house behind him gleamed in the golden hour, every polished surface and velvet drapery a reminder of Bulma’s endless drive, her effortless provision. He didn’t begrudge it—he barely noticed it. But… a faint, inexplicable twinge knotted in his chest.
She’s happy.
He told himself that. And yet, as he watched the waves curl and crash, a shadow of unease lingered. He’d never asked too much about the heart behind the gestures. Bulma gave. He took. Simple. No one’s feelings required inspection.
Goku’s voice broke into his thoughts, low and slightly slurred. “Nice place you’ve got here.”
Vegeta didn’t turn. The sound of the Saiyan’s footsteps on the polished stone was deliberate, measured, but something in his rhythm betrayed him—unsteady, like a boat caught in a swell.
“Yeah,” Vegeta replied flatly. His arms crossed over his chest. “It’s… sufficient.”
Goku chuckled, bitter at the edge. “Sufficient… yeah. Bulma’s been busy, huh? Making sure everything’s… perfect.” His eyes flicked to Vegeta, wide and slightly shiny in the sunset glow. The barest tinge of emotion on his face—resentment, jealousy, longing—flashed, gone almost immediately.
Vegeta’s gaze narrowed. He didn’t feel the need to explain. Goku’s meaning was clear, even in its half-formed bitterness.
“You’re… lucky,” Goku said softly, tone almost a question, almost a lament. “I mean… having someone like her. She’s… amazing. And me? I’ve got… nothing to give.”
The words carried more than self-pity. There was a longing in them, unspoken, a weight that Vegeta’s chest recognized before his mind could rationalize it.
He wants me to tell him he’s enough, Vegeta thought, a flicker of understanding pricking his pride. Or maybe he wants me to argue, to deny it…
Goku took another small step closer. He swayed slightly, hand brushing against the railing like he needed something solid. His pupils were dilated, his jaw slackened, and a faint flush colored the bridge of his nose. Alcohol had softened the edges of his usual control. His eyes were sharp, tiny cracks of vulnerability that screamed for recognition.
“You… think I’m… enough, right?” Goku’s words were almost inaudible, half-drowned by the ocean breeze. He tilted his head, wide-eyed, searching for something in Vegeta’s steel-grey gaze.
Vegeta couldn’t resist that look–he leaned in, parting his lips faintly–and heard a gasp. Kakarot’s. He pulled away, examining Kakarot–he wasn’t ready. He still hesitated–but that, gasp, oh–that was enough. Enough to say more than words could.
Vegeta’s lips twitched—not a smile, not a frown. He didn’t need to speak. The silence itself was almost sweet, layered and heavy. He shifted his weight, letting the faintest exhale escape. His eyes softened just enough to betray that he saw, he understood.
Goku’s chest rose and fell, uneven. He laughed softly, a sound that was more relief than humor. “Hah… okay. I thought… maybe I was wrong.”
Vegeta’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. You’re not wrong, he thought. Just unready to admit it. Yet he said nothing, letting the quiet crackle between them linger. The air smelled faintly of salt, sweat, and alcohol—a cocktail that heightened every awareness, every twitch, every heartbeat.
Goku leaned against the railing, closer now. The proximity was electric, unspoken, a tension neither could afford to name. He glanced at Vegeta again, almost pleading this time, eyes dark pools of unsteady emotion.
Vegeta’s hand brushed against the railing near Goku’s. Neither moved. The brief, accidental contact was both dangerous and thrilling—an invisible spark—but the recognition that followed, the silent acknowledgment, was sweet nectar to a tired soul. They were speaking in gestures, but the subtle honesty was long-awaited and intense.
And still, neither acted.
Vegeta’s mind churned, quiet and steady. I see you. I know you. But we are not yet here.
Goku’s lips parted slightly, a soft exhale escaping as if he had been holding it for years. He laughed again, quieter this time, almost a sigh. “I guess… I just needed to say it. Didn’t know if… if you’d care.”
Vegeta’s gaze didn’t waver. He didn’t answer. And that, in its own way, was enough. The tension, the softness, the addictive nature of the man before him—it all lingered, leaving the air thick with possibility, with unspoken truths, and the faintest ache of want.
~
~
Vegeta set his drink on the side table and leaned against the couch, scanning the room. Most of the guests had left, and the fading laughter and clinking glasses had left a peculiar quiet in their wake. The television glowed dimly in the corner, though Kakarot barely seemed to notice it.
“Still drinking?” Bulma’s voice cut through, light, teasing, but sharp beneath the surface. She didn’t need to raise an eyebrow; the look in her eyes did the work. “At your age, Goku, I’d think you’d know when to stop.”
Kakarot’s jaw tightened. His grip on the glass was a little too firm; a faint flush had risen to his neck. “I’m fine,” he said, too loudly, too fast. “It’s nothing. Besides, you’re older than me.” He stuck out his tongue. Bulma looked vaguely disgusted.
“What’s that got to do with you drinking too much on my couch?”
Vegeta’s gaze followed the subtle shifts in Kakarot’s posture—the way his shoulders stiffened, the restless tap of a foot, the brief glance toward the door as though seeking escape. Kakarot wanted to argue, to justify, to prove himself—but the slightest crease between his brows betrayed a tremor beneath the surface.
“Goku,” Chichi said softly, stepping closer, placing a hand near his arm in a gentle, grounding gesture. “Maybe you should… slow down. Just a bit, ‘til we get home…”
Kakarot’s lips twitched, a mixture of irritation and something unspoken. “I’m fine, Chichi. Really.” His voice wavered, just enough for it to be noticeable.
Vegeta didn’t move immediately. He watched, silent and assessing. Something about Kakarot’s defiance, the strain in his smile, the barely-contained flush across his chest—it pricked at something deep in Vegeta’s chest. He could not allow it to escalate. Not because anyone was in danger, but because he knew exactly what Kakarot would regret in the morning.
He stepped forward, close enough for Kakarot to feel the shift without it being threatening. “Enough,” Vegeta said, voice low and precise. The words were measured, controlled. “Stop.”
The effect was immediate. Kakarot froze, a subtle hitch in his breath. His eyes flicked to Vegeta, wide, searching, raw. He didn’t argue. He didn’t fight. He simply nodded once, stiffly, and lowered the glass.
Vegeta’s gaze lingered for a moment longer, not judging, not lecturing, but silently claiming that attention, marking the weight of the act. The faintest exhale from Kakarot followed, a breath of relief, a surrender, the acknowledgment that what Vegeta saw mattered more than anyone else’s words.
Bulma hummed, pride and mild amusement lacing her tone, though Vegeta ignored her. Kakarot’s restraint, the tiny cracks he’d revealed and the way he’d let them be contained—that was enough. No drama, no argument, just the quiet electricity of recognition between them, layered and unspoken.
Kakarot leaned back slightly, eyes dark, pupils dilated, a faint sheen of sweat on his brow. He tried to watch the television again, but the faint awareness of Vegeta’s presence, the subtle weight of his gaze, lingered in the air. It was all very small, almost mundane, but the charge between them hummed beneath it, persistent and undeniable.
Vegeta turned his attention back to the room, pretending to examine a book on the shelf, though he knew Kakarot’s every subtle shift was there for him to see. He didn’t touch him, didn’t speak further—but he had claimed the moment, and Kakarot knew it. That, more than any argument or confession, would stick with him far longer than he would admit.
~Goku PoV~
Chichi folded her hands over the steering wheel, one eyebrow raised. “You’re not driving, Goku. Sit down, now.”
Goku leaned back, grin plastered on his flushed face. “I’m fine! Really. I can—” His words slurred slightly, his hand waving vaguely toward the driver’s side.
“No. You’re definitely not fine. I’ll drive. End of discussion.” Her voice was firm, but her jaw flexed faintly, betraying just how much effort it took to stay calm with him.
“C’mon, Chichi, it’s just a few blocks…” He made a mock-serious gesture like he could manage.
“You’re drunk.” She didn’t argue the point. She simply leaned across, nudged him gently but firmly, and steered him back into the passenger seat. “I don’t want to explain to Gohan or Goten why you crashed our car because you couldn’t admit you were wasted.”
Goku’s grin faltered for a fraction of a second, and Chichi caught it—the tiniest flicker of uncertainty behind the bravado.
Goku slumped back into the passenger seat, one arm lazily draped over the door. His cheeks still burned faintly from last night, and he couldn’t stop replaying it in his head. Vegeta… seeing him like that, noticing the smallest twitch, the tiniest falter… it had been overwhelming. And yet, somehow, it had felt right. Protective, precise, slightly domineering—the way he always acted around family. But this time, it was him, acknowledging Goku, not just another person to protect. The thought warmed his chest in a way he couldn’t quite name.
Chichi’s hands gripped the wheel, steady and firm, guiding the car slowly through the quiet streets. She was considerate, driving as though Goku were made of glass, letting him lean into the seat without a word. He knew he should complain, that he should argue that he was fine, but he didn’t. Not now. Instead, he let himself watch the night blur past.
Trees swayed gently in the cool night breeze, their shadows stretching long over the asphalt. Streetlights flickered overhead, catching his eyelashes in golden glints. A possum scurried off the road, frozen for a moment as though it, too, were studying the quiet night. Goku smiled faintly, watching it disappear into the shadows. Everything was ordinary, mundane even, and yet… it felt like safety. Like home.
He pressed his palm lightly against the seat, remembering the way Vegeta had stepped closer last night—the quiet authority, the unspoken concern. He could still feel the weight of that gaze, the sharp, steel-grey eyes softening ever so slightly for him. Goku’s lips quirked upward, and a faint laugh escaped, soft and almost embarrassed. He had been seen. Truly seen. And for a moment, all the confusion, the longing, the tiny giddy pang in his chest—it all made sense.
Chichi’s steady voice broke the spell. “Almost home,” she said simply, but Goku barely heard it. He was busy letting the warmth settle, letting it sink into his bones. Vegeta had noticed him, cared in his own way, and that was enough.
~Vegeta PoV~
The first tendrils of dawn crept through the blinds, painting the kitchen in pale golds and soft pinks. Vegeta sat at the small table, a steaming bowl of oatmeal in front of him. Condensed milk had pooled into a creamy swirl, raw cane sugar dotted the surface, a dusting of cinnamon crowned the top, and a pat of butter melted lazily into the warmth. The simple comfort of it was grounding—mundane—but he found himself savoring it slowly, deliberately, like it deserved attention.
His mind, however, was elsewhere. Last night played in fragments behind his eyes: Kakarot, flushed, lips parted slightly, stumbling just enough for Chichi’s steadying grip to catch him. Bulma’s small, self-satisfied smile as she observed her handiwork. The faint hitch in Kakarot’s breath when Vegeta stepped closer—the tiniest flicker of vulnerability, and yet it had landed in Vegeta’s chest and refused to leave.
A warmth bloomed there, giddy and awkward, like a teenage crush sneaking back after years. He hadn’t felt it in so long—not the thrilling, fluttering kind, not the kind that made the ribs ache slightly with anticipation and memory. It was ridiculous, but undeniable. He let it sit there, mingling with the sweetness of the oatmeal and the soft morning light.
Vegeta scooped up a spoonful, letting the cream and cinnamon coat his tongue, and almost laughed at the absurdity. This was him—sitting quietly, enjoying breakfast, heart quietly echoing with stolen moments from last night. A part of him wanted to scold himself for it, to dismiss it as trivial. Yet another part, smaller but insistent, just wanted to linger here, in this quiet domesticity, and let the memory of Kakarot curl around him like steam from the bowl.
The sun rose higher, spilling more light across the kitchen, but Vegeta didn’t move. He took another bite, savoring it, letting the warmth of the food and the memory of Kakarot settle side by side. A quiet smile tugged at his lips—soft, small, and entirely for him alone.
~Goku PoV~
The sunlight slanted softly through the kitchen window, painting the room in warm gold. Goku stood barefoot on the cool tile, rubbing his temples gently. His stomach grumbled faintly, a reminder that last night hadn’t been entirely kind to him, but he wasn’t about to let it ruin the morning. He had a ritual. Always did after a rough night: a little ginger-lemon tea Chichi had taught him long ago.
He placed a kettle on the stove and filled it with water, listening to the faint hiss as it began to heat. While waiting, he sliced a small piece of fresh ginger, letting the sharp scent fill the air, and squeezed half a lemon into a mug. A touch of honey followed—sweet, soothing, grounding.
When the water was ready, he poured it over the ginger and lemon, inhaling deeply as the steam curled upward. He wrapped his hands around the warm mug, feeling it anchor him, chest rising and falling with slow breaths. The sharp tang of lemon, the spicy comfort of ginger, the faint sweetness of honey—it all felt like a hug from the inside out.
He sat at the table, knees pulled up, letting the warmth seep into his fingers, his chest, even the edges of his aching head. His mind drifted to last night in fragments—the small twitch in Vegeta’s hand, the faint flush across his own cheeks, Bulma’s quiet smirk of satisfaction. Somehow, even with a pounding head, his heart felt full. It was… light, despite the hangover.
Goku took a slow sip, letting the heat calm his stomach. The bitterness of ginger mixed with the brightness of lemon made him wince just slightly, then smile. It reminded him that even when he felt off, he could take care of himself. He let the warmth linger in his chest, savoring it, breathing it in.
By the time the mug was empty, Goku felt steadier—not perfect, not entirely human again—but better. Strong enough to move gently around the kitchen, to tidy a dish or two, to let the quiet morning soothe him. He placed the mug in the sink, catching the last curl of steam, and smiled faintly. He might still be hungover, still embarrassed by last night, but this small ritual—this tiny bubble of care—made everything feel… possible.
~Vegeta PoV~
Bulma & Vegeta – Morning Discussion
The kitchen smelled faintly of coffee and toast, but Bulma wasn’t thinking about breakfast. She stood by the counter, arms crossed, eyes sharp. “Vegeta, I swear, if Goku’s anywhere near your training gear again last night, I’m going to—”
“He didn’t touch anything,” Vegeta interrupted, voice calm, even, precise. He leaned against the doorway, arms folded, one eyebrow raised. “And even if he had, what’s the harm? It’s as much their home as it is ours.”
Bulma snorted. “As much their home? Vegeta, this is ridiculous! He’s reckless, he’s drinking, he—he—he’s too comfortable! This isn’t just some friend who drops by for tea. He’s… Goku!”
Vegeta’s gaze didn’t waver. “Exactly. And that is precisely why he is welcome. He is part of our lives. He is family.”
Bulma blinked, momentarily thrown off by the insistence in his tone. “Family? Vegeta, you’re insane. Being family doesn’t mean no consequences. There need to be boundaries—he can’t just waltz in, get drunk, and ignore everything else!”
Vegeta stepped closer, calm but immovable. “Boundaries do not mean exclusion. He is allowed to be here. He is allowed to laugh, to eat, to make a mess, to be… himself. We do not dictate every moment of his presence. Not when he is important to us.”
Bulma’s jaw flexed, irritation mingling with a grudging respect. “Important, sure… but—”
“He is important,” Vegeta cut her off, tone firm. “And I will not punish him for existing in our home. Not by imposing artificial rules or trying to control him. He stays here as much as he needs, because he matters. That is not negotiable.”
Bulma hesitated, caught between exasperation and the undeniable truth in his words. Finally, she exhaled, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips. “Fine. He’s family… but he still needs to behave. Some boundaries are non-negotiable.”
Vegeta inclined his head slightly, satisfied. “Agreed. Within reason. But his presence is not the problem.”
Bulma shook her head, muttering under her breath, but her expression softened. Vegeta had drawn the line, and she knew—whether she admitted it or not—he was right.
~goku pov~
The kitchen smelled of eggs, cheese, and fresh herbs. Chichi moved around with practiced efficiency, chopping and whisking, while Goku hovered nervously near the counter, fingers fidgeting.
“You’re going to apologize,” Chichi said, voice firm but patient. She didn’t look up from the quiche she was assembling. “And not just words. You’re going to bring it. To Bulma and Vegeta. They deserve that.”
Goku scratched the back of his head, cheeks pink. “I… I don’t really need to apologize, though. I didn’t—well, I mean, I got a little… drunk. But everyone’s fine, right?”
Chichi shot him a look that could melt iron. “Goku. You know you’re lucky they didn’t flip. And you’re lucky Vegeta didn’t scowl you into next week. Now. Apology. And yes, you’re taking it to them.”
Goku exhaled, trying to summon his usual charm. “Can I at least… say sorry in my own words?”
Chichi smirked, sprinkling a little grated cheese over the quiche. “You will, in your own words. But the quiche is non-negotiable. I started it already, and it’s perfect. Consider it… a little help.”
Half an hour later, quiche baked and gently steaming, Goku held the warm dish in both hands, stomach twisting—not from hunger, but from nerves. He wasn’t just embarrassed; he was still flushed from last night, a little hungover, and painfully aware of how awkward apologies could be.
He exhaled and muttered, “Okay… don’t mess this up.”
With a careful focus, he used Instant Transmission to transport himself to Bulma and Vegeta’s house. He materialized just outside the front door, quiche still warm in his hands. No sudden appearances. No startling anyone.
He knocked gently, giving a soft, hesitant tap. “Uh… hi? Goku here…” His voice wavered slightly, betraying the flush creeping up his neck.
Inside, Bulma looked up from a pile of papers, surprise flickering across her features. “Goku?”
He cleared his throat, holding the quiche forward like a peace offering. “I… uh… I’m sorry about last night. I didn’t mean to… make a mess or cause trouble…” His words were small, awkward, honest.
Vegeta, sitting nearby with a mug of coffee, didn’t even glance at him at first. Then he said, simply, “Stop. You’re not apologizing.”
Goku froze, unsure if he should insist or retreat. “Uh… okay…”
Bulma, however, reached for the quiche with a warm smile. “Well, thank you, Goku. That’s very thoughtful of you.”
Vegeta’s gaze flicked toward him briefly, but his tone carried something gentler, unspoken: “He’s family.”
Goku felt a rush of warmth spread through his chest. He let out a tiny, relieved laugh, still embarrassed, still blushing, but grateful. “Thanks… Vegeta. And… Bulma,” he added quickly, managing a small smile.
Bulma chuckled softly. “You’re welcome, Goku. Now… maybe next time, less wine?”
Goku nodded earnestly, holding the weight of both embarrassment and relief. He had made amends in his own way—and for once, he didn’t feel like he had to apologize for being himself.
Goku stepped back from the door, letting himself vanish with a small pop of Instant Transmission, landing softly on the familiar stretch of street near his own home. The quiche had been delivered. He’d mumbled his apology, Bulma had smiled, and Vegeta had… well. Vegeta had said exactly what needed to be said.
He leaned against a lamppost, the morning light just beginning to stretch across the sky. A soft breeze carried the scent of dew-soaked grass and faint exhaust from early cars. Everything felt… calm. Safe. Normal, in the way that made his chest feel warm and a little heavy at the same time.
Goku pressed a hand to his flushed cheek, still embarrassed, still sheepish. But the memory of Vegeta’s words—he’s family—looped over and over in his mind. It made him smile quietly, almost shyly. That simple declaration, the way Vegeta had looked at him without judgment, had somehow… soothed the lingering weight of last night’s mistakes.
A squirrel scurried across the road in front of him, and Goku chuckled softly to himself, blinking at the small, mundane life moving around him. Everything’s okay. Really okay. He felt a little spark of giddy, bubbly energy inside his chest—the echo of last night, the lingering warmth of being seen and accepted, and the quiet thrill of knowing Vegeta had silently defended him.
Goku let out a soft sigh, shaking his head with a grin. “Man… I’m lucky,” he whispered to the empty street. “So lucky.”
~ Chichi/Bulma conversation~
Bulma & Chichi – Quiet Reflection
Bulma leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, eyes following the steam rising from her mug. “You notice it too, right?” she asked quietly, more to herself than to Chichi.
Chichi, perched on the edge of the table with her tea, nodded slowly. “I do. It’s… obvious. And it’s… good, in a way.”
Bulma raised an eyebrow, smirk tugging at her lips. “Good? You mean… it’s lightened them up. Gave them a little… life again?”
Chichi smiled faintly. “Yes. It’s been… so long. The longing, the restraint. They’ve held back for their families, for years. And you can see how heavy that’s been.”
Bulma set her mug down, folding her hands. “And now… it’s shifting. You can see it in their eyes, in the way they move. There’s softness where there used to be only steel.”
Chichi’s gaze softened. “I think… they need permission. Not permission to love each other—we can’t give that—but permission to… exist in it, even a little. To be honest, just once. Safely. Slowly.”
Bulma tilted her head, thoughtful. “Then we should tell him. Goku. Invite him in. Make it clear. One step. One kiss. Nothing more. Approved. Honest.”
Chichi nodded firmly. “Exactly. Safe. Clear. No rush.”
~Goku PoV~
The light in his living room felt different somehow, warmer, more alive. Chichi stood nearby, calm and smiling, while Bulma settled into the armchair, arms crossed but relaxed.
“Goku,” Chichi began gently, “we need to talk about… you and Vegeta.”
Goku blinked, a little stiff, hands twisting nervously. “Uh… I… I don’t know what you mean,” he said quickly, almost too quickly, forcing a laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. “I mean… Vegeta? Me? Come on. We’re… friends.”
Bulma leaned forward, eyes soft but steady. “Goku. Don’t pretend you don’t notice. Don’t pretend he doesn’t notice.”
“I… I don’t!” Goku said, waving his hands as if swatting away the thought itself. “I mean—he’s Vegeta! He’s… I don’t know, intense, serious, scary sometimes. I can’t… I wouldn’t—he wouldn’t…” His words trailed off, voice shaky, and he looked away, cheeks warming.
Chichi leaned closer, her tone patient but firm. “You felt it yesterday, Goku. When he stepped closer, when he looked at you… that wasn’t just looking. That was… noticing you, really seeing you.”
Bulma nodded. “And remember the way he stayed with you in the kitchen? Letting you lean there, letting you have your moment? That wasn’t just coincidence. That was him, carefully, quietly caring for you in his own way.”
Goku’s jaw tightened. He opened his mouth, closed it, fidgeted with his fingers. “I… that… I don’t know. I mean… maybe… I just…”
“Just what?” Bulma prompted, leaning a little closer.
“Maybe I… maybe I wanted it,” Goku admitted, voice almost a whisper, eyes wide, heart hammering. He glanced toward the doorway as if Vegeta might appear at any moment. “I wanted… him. I… didn’t think I could… I thought it would be wrong.”
Chichi reached out, placing a reassuring hand over his. “It’s not wrong, Goku. It’s… allowed. Carefully. Slowly. Honestly.”
Bulma smiled, teasing but warm. “We’re not saying run off and do whatever you want. Just… acknowledge it. Just one step. One kiss. That’s all. Proof that you can… be honest. Even for a moment.”
Goku exhaled, trembling slightly, letting the words sink in. He laughed, a little shaky, partly disbelief, partly relief. “Really? I… we can… just… one kiss?”
“Yes,” Chichi said softly, voice steady, encouraging. “But only if it’s honest. Only if you both agree. That’s all we ask.”
Goku’s shoulders sagged in a rush of relief and anticipation. A grin broke across his face, cheeks flaming. “Okay… okay! One kiss. Honest. Got it!”
Goku's heart leapt as he flew, speed increasing rapidly. Finally. Permission. Permission to feel, to acknowledge, to be seen. And he knew exactly who he wanted to see it with first.
~Vegeta PoV~
Vegeta stood by the open window, the morning light brushing his face in pale gold. Steam still curled from the mug of coffee he cradled, a familiar warmth seeping into his hands—and his chest. He wasn’t sure why the world felt so… soft, so delicate all of a sudden.
Memories of the past weeks flitted across his mind like tiny, eager grasshoppers. Kakarot’s flushed face, the faint tremor in his hand, Chichi steadying him, Bulma’s subtle smile. The memory brought a small, almost childish tug at his chest, a flutter he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in years.
Kakarot’s voice came from the doorway, quiet, hesitant:
“Vegeta…”
Vegeta didn’t turn immediately. He let the sound of the name hang between them, thick with everything unspoken. When he finally looked, Kakarot’s eyes were wide, dark, just slightly unsure—like he was testing the air before stepping fully inside.
“You've got something to say?” Vegeta asked, voice low, steady. Not questioning his physical state—he already knew—but something else, something softer.
Kakarot swallowed. He took a small step forward. “I… I’ve been thinking… about us. A lot.” His lips twitched in a sheepish half-smile, and that tiny flicker—the old, familiar giddy flutter—hit Vegeta like a shock.
Vegeta set down the tea, finally closing the distance between them. “Us?”
Kakarot’s gaze dropped for a heartbeat. “Yeah. Us–not just our families, but the two of us…together. And… I care. About you. More than I realized.” His voice was barely above a whisper, but the weight behind it made the air between them almost electric.
Vegeta’s chest tightened. “Hn.” He leaned just slightly closer, letting the words settle. “And…the women?”
A long moment passed. Kakarot’s pulse raced, his breath shallow.
“They know…” Kakarot leaned in…
Vegeta’s presence—solid, deliberate, commanding—was like gravity, and yet, somehow, entirely safe.
Then, deliberately, Vegeta lowered his forehead to Kakarot’s. Softly, carefully, he brushed his lips against Kakarot’s. Just a single kiss, slow, deliberate, full of years of unspoken recognition and longing. Nothing rushed, nothing violent—just acknowledgment. A spark that had always threatened to blaze, finally allowed to exist in small, perfect warmth.
Kakarot exhaled, a soft, relieved sound. When Vegeta pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, Kakarot’s lips curled into a tentative, shy smile. “So… we’re… good?”
Vegeta’s steel-grey eyes softened, but the edges still held that sharp, unyielding weight. “We are,” he said simply. “For now.”
And in that quiet moment, the simmering energy of what could be burned just beneath the surface, restrained but alive—tender, contained, perfect in its stillness.
~Chichi Bulma Conversation~
Bulma leaned against the counter, arms crossed, eyes following Vegeta as he moved with deliberate calm, his steel-grey gaze distant yet somehow lighter than usual. She sipped her coffee slowly, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips.
Chichi stood beside her, stirring her own tea, brow slightly furrowed but expression soft. “I saw it,” she said quietly.
Bulma’s eyebrows lifted, teasing. “Oh? And what, pray tell, did you see?”
Chichi’s gaze didn’t leave the table. “Last night. That… moment between them.”
Bulma hummed, thoughtful. “You mean… the kiss?”
Chichi nodded. “They didn’t do anything reckless. But it was there. That… acknowledgment. And Vegeta—he’s different this morning. Not in a bad way. Just… lighter.”
Bulma let the corner of her mouth twitch into a grin. “I noticed too. That’s why I didn’t say anything this morning. They’ve been dancing around it for years. Finally, they’ve allowed themselves to… exist in it, even if just a little.”
Chichi tilted her head. “Do you think it’s… okay?”
Bulma’s grin softened into something warmer. “They’re family. They’ve always been part of this, even if they don’t act like it all the time. And honestly… if they’re happy, if it’s quiet and contained, I don’t see a reason to stop it. Just… boundaries, right?”
Chichi nodded, relief softening her features. “Boundaries. But… permission, too. Quiet permission.”
Bulma reached out, lightly touching Chichi’s hand. “Exactly. They’re allowed this—just as long as they don’t forget where they came from. And from who.”
Chichi let out a small laugh, soft and conspiratorial. “They’ll never forget. Not now.”
Bulma smirked, sipping her coffee again. “Good. Then let them have their little fire, simmering under the surface. We’ve got enough chaos to manage already.”
The two women exchanged a quiet glance, unspoken understanding passing between them. And somewhere in the house, the faint, tender echo of a kiss lingered—not explosive, not dangerous—just warm and real.