Concerto Twelve:

A/N: I've been planning and marinating on this chapter since I've started to write this story, so I hope I execute it well :) . The 'drabbles' of this chapter take place over a series of a month. Hope you guys enjoy! (rest of a/n follows story) also, hope y'all are thirsty because I've got lemonade

oooOooo

The ticks of the wall clock in the kitchen were deafening to Bulma, making her scrunch the fabric of her sweatpants in anxiety. She dare not look to see what it displayed, choosing instead to rehearse the conversation that she had already practiced for the umpteenth time. The walls moaned in an agony of grey, making the shared apartment with Yamcha seem much bleaker than it had been for the past week. She had been kidding herself when she said that the tryst with Vegeta would only take place that one night. Yamcha was acting distant since their argument at her parent's house, prompting her to find solace in Vegeta, in Vegeta's arms, in Vegeta's bed. It had gotten to the point that it was the first thing that consumed her mind when she woke up, gnawing at the edges of her brain like a whiny child, and she could no longer ignore it.

It was getting late and he still hadn't showed. Some television program played in the background, a laughing track taunting her indecisiveness, and yet she paid more attention to the dark blue rug under her glass coffee table instead of the black and white sitcom where life was perfect.

The apartment door clicked open with a key, followed by a lazy shut. Bulma dragged her eyes to the entrance in the kitchen, watching Yamcha stumble in the doorway.

"Hi," her voice was soft, almost as if she had to force it out.

"It's dark in here," he mumbled incoherently, and she could taste whatever spirits he had indulged in.

"I thought it was fitting. Are you drunk?"

He nodded his head and tried to place his key on the mail hook, but he missed it all together and it ricocheted to the floor noisily. He didn't bother to pick it up.

"I had dinner with my parents," he looked at her briefly before turning to the television, pretending to care that the main character's face was covered in cake frosting, "They asked about you."

"Oh." Bulma tore her eyes away from his haggard appearance, mimicking him as she glanced at the television. "What did they ask about?"

"Same old conversation. Wondering when we're going to get married."

"What did you say?"

He shrugged his shoulders, rummaging his hands through his long hair. "I didn't. Just poured another glass of my dad's brandy."

Bulma swallowed a lump of nerves that swelled in her throat, knowing that the moment was upon her. She slowly rolled her eyes to Yamcha, focusing on the bridge of his nose, and cleared her throat. His glassy eyes found hers unsteadily, his face washed in the soft glow of the television. "Look, Yamcha, I think we need to talk."

Yamcha sighed and ran a hand down his face, shaking his head with finality. Without a word, he turned from her and picked up his keys, walking wobbly through the kitchen.

Bulma squeezed her eyes shut in annoyance. "Where are you going, Yamcha?"

"I have a feeling you're going to tell me something I don't want to hear. And I'd like to avoid that trainwreck. It's been a long day and rehearsal was grueling. I'm going to the gym; don't wait up for me." She listened as his footsteps turned into ghost pitter patters, and the door shut again with a promise not to be opened for hours.

The clock ticked loudly again. The television laughed at her. The main characters drowned themselves in a kiss.

oooOooo

"That's a fancy bottle."

Bulma watched in wonder as Vegeta brought out wine from his cupboard, the bottle decorated with stained glass. He fumbled with two wine glasses from his mouth and his fingers, walking towards the couch where she sat. She perched up on her knees, offering to help him, his large grey shirt she was wearing swallowing her smaller frame. Vegeta had recently put on Salut d'Amour, and Bulma found herself getting carried away with the beautiful melody of the violin. No matter what they were doing, Vegeta always knew how to set the mood.

"This wine is fifteen years old," he uncorked the bottle and began to pour the liquid into their glasses, "I've been waiting to try it."

"Oh?" Bulma batted her eyelashes prettily, reaching for her glass and bringing it to her lips, "And you chose me to drink it with? I feel so honored!"

"Get a hold of yourself," Vegeta sat down on the couch next to her, allowing her to rest her feet in his lap, and glared at her from the corner of his eyes, "It just so happens that today marks the fifteenth year. My mother told me to wait until then to enjoy it. Said it would be the sweetest on this day."

Bulma took a healthy sip and scooted closer to him, bringing a hand to the back of his neck to play with the hairs that lingered there. "Mmm," she smiled, "She was right. This is delicious."

"Her father—my grandfather- owned a vineyard. He would gift our family with a bottle for the holidays. I've had this since I was sixteen."

Bulma watched as he brought his glass to his lips and drank, biting her lip as the rich liquid moved down his throat. Even when Vegeta wasn't trying, he was a work of art. "What was your mother like?" It didn't take much for her to realize that Vegeta's mother had passed, especially when he would bring her up from time to time, but he never talked about her in specifics. She didn't press on the matter, and he was relieved.

Vegeta narrowed his eyes and looked at her, a hint of hesitation dancing over his features. Bulma felt a pang of guilt as she watched his face grow in unease and uncertainty. Had she crossed a line?

He took a deep breath and tore his eyes away from her, his fingers lightly tracing circles over her exposed knee. "She was strong. Fearless," he said it like an admission, as if the words would condemn him on the spot, "Resilient. She was smart, but never boasted about it, and she had an ear for music that went unrivaled." His jaw clenched and he muttered something, and Bulma lightly ran her finger down his chiseled jawline to soothe him. He turned to look at her then, and she could tell that he was mildly feeling the effects of the wine. In a voice that slept under the romance of the music, he said, "Sometimes you remind me of her."

He looked embarrassed that he had said it, almost as if wasn't supposed to, but he did and she smiled. She gulped down the rest of her wine and placed it on the coffee table, leaning her body into his. She kissed his cheek and ran a hand down his chest. Vegeta turned his head from her and shook his head. "I don't like what you're doing to me."

She giggled and turned his face back to hers, pressing her lips to his. "Well, how about I change that? I can do something to you that I know you'd like."

She kissed him with a fire that spilled from her pores, and he kissed her back greedily with no protest. Salut d'Amour played on, but they were no longer paying attention.

oooOooo

Bulma's stomach groaned in protest as she rummaged through her empty cupboards. Being over Vegeta's apartment frequently over the past few weeks meant that he cooked for them, spoiling her from buying actual groceries. While Yamcha would normally take care of it, since he complained that she bought too many fattening foods, his shadowed presence meant that the kitchen duties were neglected. She eyed the small space, remembering a time when their laughter and lovemaking would take over every crevice in the confinement, but now the room was quiet with whispers of yesterdays.

She sighed and gave up, choosing instead to look through her secret take out menu drawer. If Yamcha wouldn't be home, then she could order an extra large pizza with sausage and mushrooms, just the way she liked. Her fingers itched over the locked drawer, her mouth salivating at the promise of crunchy crusts and savory sauce-

"Hey, Bulma."

Well, nevermind.

Yamcha sauntered in, carrying a white food bag and a drink, shutting the door with his foot. He didn't bother to look at her as he strolled towards the table, plopping down in the chair and taking out an aluminum tray from the bag.

It wasn't greasy pizza like she desired, but it was food. She opened the cupboard to grab a plate and some forks….

…And then she saw Yamcha crumble the bag and throw it away, revealing no other containers.

He turned to see the reality dawn on her and he shrugged his shoulders. "Didn't think you'd be home, babe," he said flatly, "Thought you'd be with your parents or something. Want some of mine?"

"No," Bulma retorted immediately, "No, enjoy your food. I'll just run to the store. And maybe when I get back we can finally talk."

"Can't," Yamcha replied through a mouth full of spinach, "Gonna meet up with Goku and Krillin for a mock rehearsal. By the time I get back you'll be sleeping."

Bulma didn't bother to dignify that with a response. She grabbed her coat and wallet and left, not caring that she forgot her keys.

oooOooo

The smell of fried meat blanketed the neighborhood with a tantalizing smell that made Bulma's stomach dance with anticipation. She searched the crowded streets for the source, landing her eyes on a food cart bustling with customers. She grinned greedily and raced to the music store where Vegeta was picking out supplies, her own bag of art goods slapping her thigh.

She found him sorting through assorted CD's, looking deep in concentration. Stealthily, she eased up behind him, attempting to startle him by placing her hands over his eyes.

"You're terrible at that, Bulma," he sighed, feigning irritation.

She pouted, removing her hands and waiting for him to face her. "How'd you know it was me?"

He grinned sinisterly, his eyes a dark contrast to his curved lips. "Because no one else would dare."

"You're no fun, Mr. Broody," she tugged on the sleeve of his jacket towards the entrance, "We've been shopping for hours now and I'm starving. And something smells really good."

"You're stopping my important purchase for food?" He complained but allowed himself to be pulled out of the door anyways, sniffing the air as soon as the outside grazed his skin.

"Just come on!" She turned to smile at him, maneuvering their way through the thick crowd of shoppers, the mildly warm spring day ribboning them with ease. They approached the food cart and stood in line, watching as a teenaged boy hurriedly took orders and handed out food. Vegeta scoffed; Bulma chuckled.

"I don't see why you dragged me here," he crossed his arms, "It's just meat cooked in lard."

"Who cares?" She pointed to the sign in front of them, a mouthwatering picture of chicken wrapped in some sort of batter tempting them. "It's fried chicken in waffle batter. That sounds tasty."

"That sounds disgusting." Vegeta turned his nose up and prepared to exit the line, "I'll do my stomach a favor and pass on this one."

"Oh just try it before you condemn it, will you?" Bulma had enough of men criticizing her food choices, and she wasn't about to give Vegeta a window of opportunity. "I'll even buy it for you since you want to cry about it."

"I'm not crying," he growled, "and it's your money. But if I throw it in the trash, you can only blame yourself."

"Fair deal," she smiled, finally to the front of the line, "But you'd better try it first, Vegeta."

"Hmph."

The teenaged boy ripped out a clean sheet of paper and scribbled down Bulma's order for two, ringing her out swiftly. "Can you tell me, for my friend here," she eyed Vegeta, "If this is any good?"

The boy smiled whole heartedly and nodded his head. "I'll be honest with you, miss, I only took this job so I can eat as much of it as I want. It's addicting, and I know it's unhealthy, but you see the crowd, right? That tells you how popular it is." He handed her two sticks of the battered chicken, a napkin wrapped at the bottom to catch the grease, and Bulma stepped to the side and handed one to Vegeta. He grunted as she knocked their sticks together in a 'cheers!' fashion, eyeing him as they bit into the meat together simultaneously.

The flavor immediately coated her tongue, a helix of sweet and savory, and she moaned in satisfaction. Vegeta chewed over his food carefully, sheepishly taking his eyes off of her.

"Well?" She bit into her meat again, "It's delicious, isn't it?"

He didn't make eye contact with her again, but tore a big chunk of his stick apart with his teeth, chewing with vigor. "I don't want to give you the satisfaction," he said in between bites.

Bulma threw her head back and laughed, walking alongside him as they made their way back to the shops. A street vendor began to play the accordion. It was a perfect afternoon.

oooOooo

"Why are there paint canisters everywhere?" Yamcha stepped over them carefully, trying his hardest not to spill the contents. Bulma stood outside on the balcony, working her brush against her canvas, slowly taking its virginity.

"There were some birds on the railing that were calling to me," she answered, not bothering to remove her eyes from her task, "And I had to paint them while the memory was fresh."

"You're really back to doing that again!?" Yamcha folded his arms and looked at her disapprovingly, leaning against the balcony doors, "I thought we agreed you could put your skills to better use."

"We didn't agree to anything," Bulma cut her eyes at him, "You planted that ridiculous idea in my head, and I listened to you like a fool. But now I don't have to hide anymore, so I'm painting."

"What about the smart home? What about your dad?"

"What about them?" Bulma looked back at the canvas, continuing her fluid strokes, "My dad supports my decision, and he can manage to work on the smart home for a few weeks."

Yamcha shook his head, scoffing and licking his lips. "I can't believe you're going to give up on a gift for a hobby. What are you thinking, babe?"

Bulma's skin crawled as he called her the affectionate name, now as sweet as honeyed vinegar, and sighed. "Get your boxers out of a bunch, Yamcha. I'm allowed to be multi-faceted."

Yamcha's eyes widened as he marinated on her odd choice of words, the sharp twang to them sounding oddly familiar. "Boxers out of a…what are you even saying? I don't even know who you are anymore, Bulma."

Bulma ceased her brushstrokes just long enough to look at him squarely in the eye. The birds on the banister returned, chirping of their adventures over South City. The sun cast an eerie glow over Bulma's face.

"No, Yamcha. No you don't."

oooOooo

Vegeta called Bulma one Saturday morning and told her that he wanted to move his piano into the loft. All he requested was that she help him by holding the door while he tried to maneuver it through the small frame, but that had quickly turned into a practice session for him and an art session for her.

Vegeta's fingers roamed over the keys as he played around with different octaves, providing a soundtrack as Bulma mixed colors on her canvas. Aside from the music, they were quiet and content, both lost in the beauty of the arts.

Bulma stuck her tongue out as she tried different variants of browns and greens to perfect a skin tone, adjusting it so that it was just right in her eyes. Vegeta breathed out a string of curses, and she turned around to face him. He meticulously pressed several keys, trying to find a sweet spot in his notes, his eyes casted into deadly slits. The late sun casted an orange glow around him, making his skin sparkle in the last moments of daylight. She couldn't help but giggle as she studied him try to work through his own madness.

"Hey, Vegeta?"

"Hmm?" He didn't bother to look up, completely intent on perfecting his piece.

"Maybe you could try a higher E to start off with. I think it's missing some high pitched ranges."

He slowly gazed up at her, his eyebrow perched. "And what do you know about writing musical pieces?"

Bulma flashed him a cocky smile and shrugged her shoulders, turning back to her canvas and painting her concoction of a color. "I guess I don't know anything, except I can tell you what I think would sound right."

She heard him gruff, and she didn't need to turn around to know that he was watching her intently. A silence captured the room, save for the hum of cars as they drove past, and Bulma hummed quietly to herself, the tune a rendition of what she thought Vegeta should do with his piece.

Dainty notes accompanied her as she continued her song, mimicking her fluid notes and pitch. Soon the piano drowned her out as Vegeta experimented while using her advice, not fumbling over his own analyzing. She smiled in satisfaction as he picked up the pace, slewing notes together with ease as if he had thought of it all along. He mixed in a few notes of the lower range in, and Bulma was in awe at how much of a craftsman Vegeta was when it came to writing music. He had made a symphony out of her song in a way that only he could. He was a musical genius, indeed.

The piano dulled down to airy notes until his fingers glided off of them, like a majestic bird taking flight, and Bulma was startled when she felt his deft fingers skim down her back. An electric shock jolted through her, his warm presence cocooning her entire body.

"What are you painting?" He said lowly in her ear, his hot breath smoothing over her skin and making her come alive in a fiery blaze.

"I don't really know," she confessed, continuing her strokes, "This is just what came to mind while you were playing. It was peaceful."

"Hmmph," he rested his chin in the dip of her shoulder, covering her hand with his own, "It looks abstract. How Picasso of you."

His touch on hers made her tingle, and she found herseslf leaning against his torso for support. "I suppose it is."

Vegeta moved her hand on the canvas, smoothing out the edges of the oil paint in a different direction than intended. He dipped the brush in paint, in a purple that she wasn't planning on using, and brought it back to smear in the middle of the unfinished piece.

"What are you doing, Vegeta?"

He chuckled in her ear, his deep baritone causing her to shiver. "Now, now, Bulma, do you really think it's fair that you help me with my work but I can't help you with yours?"

She frowned as he used to purple in a place that she wanted to use yellow, and yet she didn't retract her hand. "But do you know what you're doing?"

"Does any artist know what they're doing? Or are they all just winging it and hoping that it comes out beautiful?"

"How deep of you," she scoffed, "but I beg to differ. I would like to not mess this up, thank you."

"Tch," he smirked, his eyes half lidded, "Oh ye of little faith." He continued his third party painting, and Bulma allowed him to use the colors in a way that he saw fit, curious to see where it would end up. Finally he released her hand and stepped back, taking her with him. "Now look with your eyes instead of your overthinking brain."

Bulma processed the image in front of her and soaked it in. The colors were unconventional and random, but they managed to fit. It was like a puzzle that had no true purpose, but still provided resolution. The corners of her mouth tugged upwards and she turned around to face him, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"Well who would've thought?" She giggled, "You just created art."

"You say that as if I already don't," he frowned, "isn't my artistry the reason why you're playing the back and forth anyways?"

Bulma sighed and pressed her body against his, frowning. "Don't be like that, Vegeta. I'm working on it."

"It's almost been a month. I told you I won't be your excuse."

"Then why are you still here?"

A crimson blush rose to his cheeks and he looked away from her, clicking his teeth. She didn't need to hear his words, she knew that he still came around for the same reason she had.

Once you tasted the addicting allure of temptation, everything else seemed mundane. And Bulma, whether Vegeta wanted to admit it out loud or not, was Vegeta's current addiction. Not that she was complaining.

She silenced whatever tormenting thoughts that raced through his mind with her lips, the sun leaving them to their privacy as the moon shone on its children.

oooOooo

"So I was thinking that we could go out for a nice dinner, just the two of us. Get some wine in our system and have a little girl chat," Chi Chi rattled on in Bulma's ear, throwing out suggestions to get them out of the house.

"Sounds good."

"I even heard there's a new winery opening up downtown. I heard the food is supposed to be amazing."

Bulma giggled into the receiver. "Awesome."

There was a prolonged silence as on Chi Chi's end, not that Bulma was paying any attention to her friend. "And then I was thinking we could do a little mud wrestling at the local university, maybe some wet T-shirt contests? I would love to show the students what pregnancy does to a woman's breasts."

"I'm fine with that."

"Bulma Briefs!" Chi Chi yelled into the phone, practically screaming Bulma's ear off, "What is so important that you're not listening to me?"

Bulma looked down at her current work of art under her milky thighs, her hands messy in paint. "I'm sorry Chi Chi, I was…painting."

"Oh," Chi Chi blew out a relieved breath, "I thought you were being nasty or something."

Bulma bit her lip guiltily as she ran a finger dipped in red down a bronzed chest, mapping out an imaginary planet full of oranges and yellows and reds on the skin. Vegeta placed his hands on both sides of her waist, sliding her naked body down to his erect shaft. Bulma gasped as she felt his bulge against the jewel in between her thighs, feeling her arousal begin to spill down. Vegeta smirked at her, mouthing for her to get off the phone. Impatiently, he lifted her up to enter her as his thumb stroked her clit in circles.

Bulma swallowed to stifle her moan. "C-Chi Chi," she said in a breathy voice, "I gotta call you back, my painting is really…oh my god…hard right now and I've got to…unf…focus."

"Oh my!" Chi Chi squealed, "That sounds like you're really struggling over there."

Bulma bit her lip again as Vegeta thrusted his hips to move in and out of her, his thumb applying more force on her pebbled clitoris. "O-oh! You have no…idea…"

"Okay well I'll leave you to it! I hope you finish it well!"

"Oh I plan to!" She covered her mouth as Vegeta hit a spot he discovered that she liked, hitting the end button before Chi Chi could properly say goodbye. Vegeta smirked and flipped her over, stroking her rhythmically as she mewled beneath him. She wrapped her legs around his waist, begging him to go deeper. He obliged, holding her thigh in the air as he found home time and time again in her core, mentally reminding himself to pull out before he got carried away.

Bulma spoke his name like she was quoting religious text, letting it fall of her tongue sweetly. Vegeta made her feel more than a woman, more than a lover, even if he didn't speak it. The way that his cock fit perfectly inside of her was enough to convey any message.

Vegeta brought his head down to look at her as she whimpered beneath him, forcing herself to keep her eyes open and not get blinded away in nirvana. His stare was captivating, dark and mysterious, and Bulma felt the last of her resolve unfolding as she came, forgetting about her painted hands and smearing his face with her ecstasy. He brushed his lips against her palm, staining them red too, and let her ride out her wave until she was washed ashore before pulling out. Bulma lazily reached a hand down and finished him, relieving him of his duties, uncaring about where he soiled.

He collapsed backwards on the bed when he was spent, and she followed suit, laying her head against his chest as he caught his breath. His finger stroked her back, and she knew that sleep was upon them.

"Vegeta," she said just before sleep called her.

"Hmm?"

"Could you get used to this?"

Vegeta took a deep breath, his finger stopping in his track. "…I'm not answering that question until you decide on what you need to do."

"I've decided already," she whispered, cradling her head under his chin, dreading what she knew tomorrow would bring.

oooOooo

The text message was read loud and clear. Bulma could not tear her eyes away from the screen.

Chi Chi texted her earlier, complete with a picture attachment, apologizing throughout the content.

I'm so sorry to be the one to show you this. As a friend, I couldn't let it go. I'm really sorry Bulma. If you need to talk, I'm here.

The picture was plastered on her screen like a stock wallpaper, a man leaning in closely to an attractive young woman, his lips at her cheek, his arm around her waist. His long hair blocked his face, but Bulma didn't need to see it any clearer than it already was.

Yamcha.

I can't believe he could be so open about it! You're a great woman, Bulma, and he doesn't deserve you.

Bulma laughed as she read Chi Chi's concerned text. No, Yamcha did not deserve her, but not for the reason that Chi Chi thought.

Chi Chi was most likely expecting her to be livid, hell any woman would, but all Bulma could feel was a sense of relief. Even though Yamcha was not compatible for her in a romantic way, they had built a friendship that, although tarnished at the moment, was still there. All Bulma could think of as she glanced over the screen was:

"At least he can find solace in another. I don't want to completely break his heart."

It made this next moment easier, like knowing the questions to a test not yet taken, and she breathed a sigh of relief. She looked at the luggage that surrounded her, judging her, and waited patiently for him to walk through the door.

When he did an hour later, Bulma was sure of the words to say to ease the blunt of the wound to come, words that could allow them both to breathe. He walked into the living room and eyed her and the luggage warily, an insulting expression on his face.

"Bulma," he said softly, sternly, "What's all of this?"

"I think it's obvious, Yamcha," she sighed, standing to her feet and smoothing her pants, "It's really time for us to have that conversation."

Yamcha licked his lips and breathed out, looking towards the wall. "Bulma…babe…You can't be serious right now."

"Yamcha," she closed her eyes, willing the words out of her mouth, "You and I both know it hasn't been working for a while now. We're on two different pages, two different books. And that's not a life we need to live."

"So you're just going to end it!?" He rose his hands in the air and approached her, his eyes pleading before his mouth did, "I know you've been mad at me, Bulma, but I can fix it! Should I buy you some paint?"

"Yamcha—"

"If you want to be an artist I don't fucking care babe! You want to eat that shitty food!? Fine!"

"Yamcha, it's not—"

"I mean I don't really want you to eat that stuff, but if it makes you stay then whatever, we can eat carbs like once a week. That's what you want, right? A man who doesn't care about your health?"

"YAMCHA I CHEATED!"

The silence engulfed the room, playing out like an indie movie instead of Bulma's life. The damned clock ticked relentlessly again. Yamcha swallowed. Bulma sighed, a crystal tear sliding down her cheek.

"….You…what?" He looked at her incredulously, as if it were some April Fool's joke.

He had a lot of nerve.

Bulma looked away, unable to look at him squarely in the eyes. "I cheated," she whispered, "and I'm sorry, Yamcha. But that's the truth."

"So we can't be together because of some guy? You're throwing away everything for some guy?!"

"It's more than that!" She whipped her head around furiously, knowing Vegeta was more than just some guy. "It's everything, Yamcha! It's the way you try to control everything I do, everything I eat! You won't let me just be, and I'm sorry but it's too late for you to provide me with some ill promises now."

"I treat you like a princess Bulma!"

"Oh!? Is that why you're out here smooching other women!" She showed him her picture mail and watched his face turn beet red, his eyes unable to deny it. "Don't make yourself out to be a saint, Yamcha. You obviously felt the end of our relationship too."

Yamcha shook his head, studying the cracks in the wall. "She….she was just some girl from the gym. She likes the same things I do and she offered to buy me lunch…"

"Real happy for you, Yamcha," she bit, "And now that I hear you say that, I know you feel like I do. So can we at least be civil about this and end on good terms?"

Yamcha clenched his jaw and balled his fists, his eyes turning red and glistening. "….Get the hell out."

It was Bulma's turn to stare at him like he was crazy, and she blinked rapidly as if it would undo what he said. "Excuse me?"

"Get the hell out Bulma! Did it ever occur to you that you neglected me? That I could sense your own emotional detachment for the past month and a half? That stunt you pulled at your parent's house? No wonder I've been dating!"

"You can't be serious Yamcha."

"Oh-ho! I am!" He marched to the door in the kitchen and opened it, leaning against the door. "Get out."

Bulma studied his face, sucking in a tight breath of air. She should've expected this. Yamcha had never taken criticism well, and he never was great at admitting his own faults. Not that she was perfect, but at least she could admit it. She gathered her luggage and strode past him, stopping just in the doorway. "I really hope you can get over yourself, Yamcha. I'm not a saint, but I'm not the only sinner. Maybe one day we can talk about this like adults and—"

The door slammed in her face in place of his response. The afternoon wind caressed her tresses, kissing her cheeks for comfort. Inside, Bulma just felt empty, as if she was expecting a rush of emotions, but they never came, just tears streaming down her face at the overwhelming scenario. But as she intently looked at the glass window pane on the wood, Bulma vowed that it would be the last time she would cry over Yamcha.

oooOooo

A/N : I must say, I've really enjoyed reading your comments about her breaking up with Yamcha. You guys leave the best reviews. And now it is finished!

I hope this chapter came out well, it was difficult to really write it the way I saw it in my head (I wish there was no middle man for that, but I guess that takes the beauty out of writing?)

Thank you guys for your continued support of this story. It means a lot, and I love it and you guys!

Please R&R!

Until next time!