Chapter 1

O

Off the Ropes

The championship lights still burned into the night like a second sun.

The crowd had mostly dispersed, but the energy still buzzed in the air thick, electric, and humming with post-fight adrenaline. The Tri-State MMA championship belt glinted under the dim bar lights, tilted at a cocky angle on Goku's hip as he spun a shot glass between his fingers.

"Cheers to the champ!" Master Roshi slurred, lifting his beer high above his head. "The man, the myth, the motherfucking GOKU!"

Goku chuckled, bumping his shot against Roshi's before downing it in one gulp. "C'mon, Master Roshi. You're gonna make me blush."

Chi-Chi leaned into Goku's side, a fond smile on her face. She looked every bit the elegant warrior's wife tonight, dressed in sleek black with her hair pinned in soft waves. Her hand found his, fingers laced with familiarity. "You earned this one, babe. That last-round reversal? Insane."

Across the booth, Yamcha howled. "I still can't believe you pulled that move on Recoome. That dude looked like a damn vending machine with arms!"

The table roared with laughter. Even Tien cracked a smirk.

But at the edge of the bar, far removed from the lively celebration, sat Bulma Briefs.

A crimson martini glass dangled between her fingers, beads of condensation slipping over her skin. Her red dress hugged her like a second skin, designed less for comfort and more for forgetfulness. Her hair was curled, pinned on one side and cascading on the other. The makeup was flawless. The expression was not.

She took another sip.

She didn't want to be here. Not really. But Chi-Chi had insisted. And there were only so many excuses Bulma could recycle before even she didn't believe them.

Her gaze slid to the booth again, at the glowing smile on Goku's face, the pride in Chi-Chi's eyes, the casual touch between them. The warmth of earned victory. The comfort of knowing someone would always be in your corner.

Bulma turned her gaze down to the swirl in her drink.

A seat scraped beside her. She didn't look.

"Whiskey. Neat," said a voice, low, sharp, clipped. Familiar.

Bulma's jaw flexed. She didn't turn. "Hope you're not one of those guys who thinks sitting next to a woman counts as flirting."

The man scoffed. "Hope you're not one of those women who thinks drinking alone makes you mysterious."

That got her attention.

She glanced sideways, eyes narrowing. Dark flame-shaped hair. Bruised cheekbone. Championship-grade scowl. He looked vaguely familiar, though she couldn't quite place him.

"You look like shit," she said, lifting a brow.

"And you look like money," he fired back. "Too bad both of us are liars."

She smirked despite herself. "Cute. Rude. But cute."

His whiskey arrived. He didn't say thank you. Instead, he tilted the glass back and downed it in a single motion. Then slammed it on the bar like it had insulted his lineage.

"Let me guess," Bulma said, still watching him from the corner of her eye. "You lost a fight tonight."

"I don't lose," he replied, too fast. Too sharp.

Her smile grew. "Ah. So you got your ass handed to you and you're in denial."

"No." He leaned in, just slightly. "I was robbed."

She turned toward him, finally. Fully.

"Vegeta," he added, like it meant something. Like it was a challenge.

Her mouth quirked. "Bulma."

They stared. The music thumped on in the background. Around them, people danced, laughed, flirted.

They drank.

And drank.

And somewhere between round three and four of their silent, unspoken competition, Bulma's hand brushed against his thigh.

Vegeta's hand found her hip.

The bar blurred.

They didn't make it to her place.

They barely made it out of the bar.

The hallway outside the rooftop lounge was dim and echoing, lit only by red EXIT signs and the flicker of neon from the city below. He shoved her back against the wall, and she welcomed it like a challenge, arms wrapping tight around his shoulders.

Their mouths met. Hot, needy, unrelenting. It wasn't sweet. It was a collision. Teeth clicked. Tongues clashed. He tasted like whiskey and blood and something wild. She moaned into his mouth, nails digging into the nape of his neck.

He dropped to his knees.

She gasped, hips pressing back into the wall as he pushed her dress up around her hips. Her lace panties were soaked, and he didn't hesitate to drag them down with his teeth.

"What are you doing?" she hissed, half-laughing, half-shocked.

"Getting a taste," he growled.

His mouth was on her before she could argue. Her breath caught, one hand shooting to his hair, the other bracing against the wall. He was relentless, tongue swirling against her clit, teasing, tasting, groaning like he'd been starving and she was the answer to every hunger.

"Oh, god," she gasped, the heat building fast and thick. "We can't, someone could see-"

He didn't stop. Not until her thighs trembled, not until her whimpers turned into urgent pleas.

She tugged his hair. "We need to go. Now."

He stood, pupils blown wide, mouth glistening. "Your place or mine?"

She could barely breathe. "Yours. Yours. Now."

They crashed through the door of his apartment like a storm, keys barely hitting the counter. Clothes trailed behind them. He pressed her against the nearest wall, hands on her hips, lips at her throat. She was already aching for more.

Vegeta lifted her again, carried her to the bedroom like she weighed nothing. Threw her on the bed. She laughed, breathless, and sat up to strip her dress off fully.

"You're beautiful," he said before kissing her again, hard, like he wanted to consume the breath she was trying to take.

His hands explored her body like he was memorizing a map, rough and reverent at once. She arched beneath him, guiding his hand between her thighs.

"No more teasing," she whispered.

He didn't argue.

She felt him press into her with a slow, deliberate roll of his hips, and this time she let herself feel it all. Every inch. Every sharp gasp. Every stuttered curse.

"God, you're…" she started, but her words vanished.

"Say it," he grunted, his voice a rasp.

"So deep," she whispered. "Feels so good."

He groaned low, pace intensifying.

Their bodies tangled, heat building. She came with a choked cry, legs clamping around him, and he followed with a sharp moan, burying his face in her neck as he spilled into her.

For a while, they stayed like that. A tangle of sweat, heartbeat, and heavy breath.

Then sleep found them both.

Morning hit like a freight train.

Bulma stirred under unfamiliar sheets, makeup smeared, limbs tangled in someone else's scent. Her dress was half on, half off. Her panties were missing. Her head throbbed.

She blinked. Groaned. Stumbled out of bed.

And saw a brown wallet on the floor.

She picked it up absently, stuffing it in her purse along with her lipstick, keys, and whatever pride she could salvage. Whoever he was- Vegeta, Mr. Robbed-Not-Defeated- he was still passed out, half-naked, sprawled across the bed like he owned the planet.

Her phone buzzed.

Chi-Chi: Where are you? You alive?

Chi-Chi: Don't make me call the cops. Answer me, Bulma.

She rolled her eyes and silenced it.

Bulma didn't leave a note.

She didn't even look back.

The elevator ride down was silent.

But the wallet in her purse burned like a loose thread in her otherwise perfect plan of detachment.

She'd meant to forget him.

Instead, she walked away with a piece of him.

And the first crack opened wide.