Chapter 6
O
What We Don't Say
The clock blinked 2:17 a.m.
Bulma sat cross-legged in her bed, phone resting on her lap, forgotten. The soft hum of the Capsule compound outside her window was usually enough to lull her to sleep. But tonight, it gnawed at her.
He hadn't come.
No text. No knock on the window. No smirk in the hallway. Just… silence.
She scrolled through their last messages. A sarcastic reply from her, a half-grunted "on my way" from him.
That was four days ago.
She wasn't mad. Not really. Not yet. But she wasn't stupid either.
He was pulling away.
And somewhere deep inside, she already knew why.
But then, one night, he came back like a ghost. Late. Silent. Bruised knuckles, a busted lip, and that stubborn tilt to his shoulders that said don't ask.
Bulma didn't say anything. She just opened the door, stepped aside, and let him in.
They ended up on the couch, tangled in the soft throw blanket she kept for winter power outages. The TV played some mindless background noise. Neither cared. His hand settled on her thigh, heavy and warm. Her head rested on his shoulder, their breaths syncing without trying.
It should've felt ordinary. But it didn't.
It felt like both of them pretending not to care too much. Like they'd already said too much without speaking at all.
"You're fidgety," she whispered.
"You're nosy."
She smiled, even though her chest ached.
The heat between them had become ritual. No labels. No rules. No questions. Bulma told herself it was casual. Easy. The kind of no-strings situation two overachievers could enjoy between work and chaos. She'd show up at the training center after hours. He'd stop by the lab with bruises and smug remarks. They'd argue. They'd flirt. They'd end up tangled in sheets or pressed against walls.
Then they'd leave. Like nothing happened.
Except, it always felt like something had.
He still showed up sometimes. Unannounced. Like muscle memory. One night she found herself perched on the edge of the gravity chamber, dabbing at a cut near Vegeta's temple. He sat still, eyes closed, sweat clinging to his skin. Her fingers moved carefully—not because she thought he'd flinch (he wouldn't) but because she wanted an excuse to linger.
"You could try dodging next time," she murmured.
"He wasn't worth dodging," he replied.
"So you let him hit you? For fun?"
"For the lesson."
She rolled her eyes. "So dramatic."
But she didn't move away. And he didn't push her to.
Another night, he showed up at her lab after midnight. No knock. No explanation. Just walked in, leaned against her desk, and watched her solder microchips with unnerving intensity. She didn't say anything. Just handed him a snack and kept working.
He stayed until she finished.
Neither of them said why.
They were getting good at that; not saying things.
At the next match, she sat in the front row. Not in the reserved Capsule Corp box. Not in the back with the tech heads. Front row. He didn't look for her. But she knew he knew.
When he won brutally, cleanly, efficiently, his eyes skimmed the crowd once. Just once.
Right at her.
Later, he didn't mention it. Neither did she.
But when she let herself into his apartment that night, he was already waiting. No words. Just hands. Mouths. Breaths against skin.
It wasn't about love. It wasn't about need.
But it was starting to become about comfort.
Some nights, it even felt like something softer. One evening, they sat on her balcony, wrapped in blankets and half-drunk on expensive wine. The city lights flickered far below as they stared up at the stars for so long, it stopped being awkward.
"You ever miss it?" she asked finally. "Where you came from?"
He didn't answer at first. Then "I remember fragments of my childhood. That's about it."
"I think that counts," she murmured.
He turned his head, studying her. "What do you remember most? About your childhood?"
She blinked, surprised he asked. "Noise. Inventions breaking. Mom burning things. Dad talking to himself in three languages."
He smirked. "So… not much has changed."
She laughed, then rested her head on his shoulder.
He didn't move.
When she woke the next morning, he was gone but her jacket was still on the chair. Her spare shoes, by the door. Her perfume lingered on his collar. Her toothbrush in the bathroom. Her body scrub and loofah, in his shower.
They never talked about that either.
But the distance crept in again.
He noticed it in the chamber.
A flicker. A moment.
Her energy dipped, not enough for a normal eye to catch. But his wasn't normal.
Bulma wasn't a fighter, not like Goku or even Chi-Chi, but years around warriors had sharpened her instincts. She could hold her own in light sparring, enough to dodge, counter, and talk shit while doing it. Vegeta had once mocked her for it. Then she disarmed him with a knee to the gut and earned his reluctant respect.
So when they sparred, it wasn't about winning. It was about tension. Heat. A language they didn't speak outside the ring.
But today, something was off.
She was slightly slower. Not weak...just… careful. Restrained.
He caught her mid-spin and paused, holding her wrists lightly instead of flipping her.
Bulma blinked up at him. "What?"
He let her go. "You're slower today."
"Maybe you're just faster."
He grunted, but didn't argue.
His eyes flicked to her lower abdomen for a split second before he masked it with a shrug and stepped back.
He didn't ask.
He didn't want to know.
He trained twice as long that night.
And then without warning, he showed up again on another night. She was running diagnostics in the lab when he walked in, his energy unreadable. No knock. No lead-in. Just him.
"Twice in one week?" she said, barely looking up. "You're spoiling me."
He didn't rise to the bait. Just stood there with his arms folded, jaw tight.
She set the tablet down with a sigh. "Okay. What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Vegeta."
Silence.
He stepped forward. His fingers brushed her wrist. She didn't pull away.
"You've been… different lately," she said.
"So have you."
"Don't do that. Don't reflect it back just to dodge."
"I'm not dodging," he said, but his voice was thin.
She stared up at him, eyes narrowing. "Then say what this is. Say what I am to you."
His jaw clenched.
He kissed her instead.
Rough. Desperate. Like a man trying to erase the question before it left her mouth.
And she let him, because it still felt like something.
But when she woke up the next morning alone, with no note and the door ajar, she knew what was coming.
And she was right.
The door slammed behind him that night in her apartment.
Bulma whipped around from the kitchen island. "Didn't realize you still had a key."
Vegeta tossed it on the counter with a clink. "Won't need it after tonight."
Her breath hitched. "Oh?" she said, keeping her voice even. "Going somewhere?"
"I leave tomorrow."
She blinked. "You what?"
"Galactic MMA tour. Starts on Alpha V. They want press. Footage. Blood."
"So you're just...what...going off-planet now?" She forced a dry laugh. "Cool. Cool. Thanks for the heads up."
"I don't owe you a warning," he muttered.
"No. You just owe me the truth." Her voice cracked. "You always do this. You wait until it's too late, and then you vanish like none of it mattered."
He met her eyes, sharp and detached. "It didn't."
The air left her lungs.
"You son of a- fuck you, Vegeta."
"You knew what this was."
"I thought I did!" she yelled, "And then you looked at me like that, and you kissed me like I was oxygen, and you touched me like you needed me-"
"Don't mistake survival for affection."
She stared, stunned. "You really are a bastard."
"You really are naive."
That did it.
She stormed up to him, finger in his chest. "I let you into my bed. My home. My life. I brought you bandages when you were bleeding, and upgraded your armors for every match! And I didn't ask for anything in return but honesty."
"I never lied."
"No...you just withheld, which is worse."
"I told you I wasn't staying."
"You never told me I mattered."
Silence.
Her voice dropped low, shaking. "And the worst part? I believed in you. I told myself it was fine, that I could handle it. No labels, no promises, just the heat and the chemistry and the… God, the stupid hope that maybe- maybe it could be more."
"You want me to stay?" he asked, voice rising. "You want me to give up everything I've worked for—for you? For a maybe?"
"No. I want you to fight for something other than your fucking ego."
"I've fought my entire life," he shouted. "For respect. For my name. For survival. You think I know how to fight for feelings?!"
"Yes!" she screamed. "Because this—us—this was real! And you're running from it like a goddamn coward!"
He turned away.
And that was worse than anything he could've said.
"Say something!" she begged, breath catching. "Say it meant nothing. Say you don't care. Just say anything."
"I can't," he whispered.
And she knew.
He did care.
That was the tragedy.
But he would never let himself show it.
So she hit him where it would cut.
"I'm late."
He turned.
"I'm not sure yet. But I'm late," she said, voice hoarse. "And I wasn't going to tell you. Because I didn't want you to think it was a trap. I didn't want to be that girl."
The room spun.
"But now I don't give a damn. Because you're leaving either way."
Vegeta's mouth opened slightly, but nothing came out.
"You don't have to say anything," she said. "You've already made your choice."
"I didn't ask for this."
"Neither did I."
She stepped back, arms wrapping around herself.
"So go, Prince of Nothing. Chase your title. Prove to the universe you're still dangerous."
Her eyes locked on his one last time.
"But when you're alone at the top of it all, remember; you walked away from the only fight that ever mattered."
The door slammed behind her this time.
And he didn't chase her.
The door had barely clicked shut before the silence sank in.
Vegeta stood there in the middle of her apartment. His own breath ragged, fists clenched at his sides. The echo of her voice still thundered in the walls, louder than any stadium crowd. Her scent still clung to the air; lavender and rage.
He didn't move.
Not for minutes.
Then he stepped toward the glass door leading out to the balcony and opened it, letting the wind cut into him like her last words did.
"You walked away from the only fight that ever mattered."
He gritted his teeth.
He didn't need this.
Didn't need her.
Didn't need the way she made him feel like something more than fists and fury. Like a man who could stay.
But gods, the way she looked when she said "I'm late."
Something cracked inside him.
He pressed his palms to the railing, head bowed.
His tour started tomorrow. His name would flash across every screen in the quadrant. Victory would be his again.
And yet…
None of it would feel like winning.
Not now.
The bathroom light flickered on with a quiet buzz.
Bulma closed the door behind her, leaned against it, and finally let herself crumble.
The sob caught in her throat first. It was ugly, raw, unglamorous. She slid down the door until she hit the tile, hugging her knees to her chest.
How had it gone so wrong so fast?
She didn't cry for men. Not ever. But this wasn't about a man.
This was about him.
The only person who ever made her feel like she could throw punches and still be wanted. The only one who matched her heat, her mind, her damn heart.
And he left.
She finally stood, peeled her clothes off, and stepped under the scalding hot water. Her skin prickled, but she didn't care. The burn grounded her.
Her hands rested low on her stomach, almost protectively. She hadn't taken the test yet. But deep down, she knew.
"I would've told you," she whispered. "If you'd stayed. I would've let you in."
The water masked her tears, but not the ache.
Not the hollow that opened where his body had been.
And when she finally turned off the water, the silence that followed was deafening.
Ah, yes, the plot thickens. Act 1 is complete!
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