CHAPTER FOUR- Case Study: Saiyan Post-Coitus Behavior

Capsule Corp Kitchen – 07:43 AM

Sunlight streamed through the wide kitchen windows, catching on the faint steam rising from a pot of tea. The air was thick with the scent of toast, jam, and eggs.

Bulma padded in barefoot, her hair in a loose braid, sleep clinging to the edges of her mind.

And something else.

The chair across from hers was empty.

So was the plate beside it—clean, dry, cold.

She blinked at the sink.

In the center, like a ceremonial offering, lay the remains of a training drone—its casing split open like a ribcage, scorched wires spilling out like synthetic entrails.

Her mother hummed nearby, flipping a pancake with cheerful disregard for the technological corpse in her sink.

"Oh, good morning, sweetie!" Vikini chirped. "He left that here about ten minutes ago. Said you should dispose of it. 'No need to fix it.'" She mimicked Vegeta's gravelly voice in singsong.

Bulma's eyes narrowed. She stepped closer to inspect the wreckage.

Yeah. No fixing that. It looked like someone had rage-punched it until it begged for mercy.

Her father peeked over the top of his newspaper.
"I saw him fly out into the garden," Dr. Briefs added. "Didn't even grab food. Just took off. Very determined."

Bulma stared at the open back door. The warm morning air drifted through it, quiet and calm.

Gone.

She poured herself a cup of coffee. Black. Strong. Dangerous.

Like her mood.

Bulma's Lab – Moments Later

The lab door hissed shut behind her, sealing her in the familiar hum of tech. Overhead lights flickered to life automatically.

She set the mug down on her cluttered desk and sank into her chair.

Still.

Is he avoiding me?

The thought wasn't meant to hurt. But it did.

A vivid memory surged up—his breath hot on her neck, his rough palm against her spine, the guttural sound he'd made when—

Nope. Not going there.

She rubbed her temples, the ache building behind her eyes. A desperate gulp of coffee offered no clarity.

It's not that he didn't like it. There had been no hesitation in his touch. No confusion. He'd known exactly what he was doing. And he'd wanted it.

She bit her lip, unsettled.

Or maybe… maybe it meant nothing. Just a primal Saiyan urge. Instinct. He got what he needed and—

Goodbye, Earth woman.

Her brain, traitorous as ever, conjured an image of Vegeta soaring off, arms crossed, yelling down at her:

"I have fulfilled my biological imperative. Cease bothering me, Earth woman."

A groan escaped her.

She grabbed her tablet.

Click.

"Recording 004: Understanding Saiyans Post-Coitus."

Her voice was flat. Defeated. Marginally caffeinated.

"Day one. Subject V has vanished. Left behind one thoroughly obliterated drone, a kitchen full of tension, and precisely zero eye contact. I haven't seen him since. Interpretation: unknown. But not promising."

Ceramic clinked softly against metal.

"Theory One: Subject is an asshole. Fulfilled a need. Satisfied. Done. I might never see him again."

She sipped. Bit the inside of her cheek.

"Poetic, really. Galactic royalty hits and runs. New low—even for me."

Pause.

"Theory Two: Subject doesn't want to talk. Would rather pretend it didn't happen than say something meaningful. Or worse—he thinks I'm beneath him. Not worth the breath. Why waste royal syllables on someone like me?"

Her fingers tapped a restless rhythm against the desk.

"Because gods forbid he show a single human emotion."

The cursor blinked back at her. Blank. Blinking. Mocking.

"Theory Three…"

A long pause.

Her voice returned, quieter now.

"…What if I'm the problem?"

Her gaze drifted, unfocused. An image surfaced—his face, startled. Like he didn't know what to do with what she'd given him.

"Was I… too much?"

Then—

"Oh my god. Did I break him? With my kink?"

She groaned, forehead in her hand.

"I think I broke a Saiyan."

Click. Recording off.

She dropped the tablet like it had betrayed her. Let out a long, exhausted sigh.

Then, muttered:

"Still not worse than Yamcha."

It took him three days to return.

He came back the way he'd left—unannounced.

As his silhouette emerged in the hallway, Bulma instantly knew where he was headed. The gravity chamber loomed behind her like a checkpoint she hadn't realized she was guarding.

Sunlight slanted through the window, catching on his face—tense brow, set jaw, eyes unreadable.

She couldn't read him.

So, she looked away.

She wouldn't speak first. Her pride had only just been pieced back together, shard by fragile shard.

He walked past her—close enough to feel the static of his presence, the brush of heat against her skin. He smelled like salt and sun and something wild. Wherever he'd been, it hadn't been peaceful.

A flare of indignation rose in her chest.

Seriously? After all that, he's just going to walk by? Pretend I don't exist? Like nothing happened? Like I'm—

But then—

"It was my fifth training session of the day."

She blinked.

"…What?"

"That day."
Still no eye contact. Voice gruff. Neutral, like a report.
"I'd been training. For ten hours. Just saying."

Then he kept walking—like he hadn't just lobbed an emotionally encrypted data packet into her barely rebuilt firewall.

She didn't move. The tablet was still clutched in her hand.

Slowly, she lifted it. Opened the app. Hit record.

"Recording 004: Addendum."

Her voice was quieter now. Tighter. Almost intimate.

"Subject V has returned to Capsule grounds after a 72-hour absence. Minimal interaction. However, he offered an unsolicited statement regarding his training schedule on the day of the… incident."

She began pacing. Her heels echoed faintly down the corridor.

"Direct quote: 'It was my fifth training session of the day.' Interpretation: unclear."

She chewed her cheek, thinking.

"Possibility One: Literal explanation. A simple fact. 'Don't read too much into it—I was just tired.'"

Her jaw clenched.

"Which is insulting. Like I was just another exhausting workout."

She stopped walking.

"Possibility Two: Saiyan brag. This is Vegeta. Everything is a contest. Maybe that was his twisted way of saying, 'Even after ten hours of combat, I still had energy for you.'"

She scoffed.

"Possibility Three: He's genuinely clueless. Maybe that tidbit made sense to his weird Saiyan brain. Maybe he thought that was… helpful."

A humorless chuckle escaped her.

"Conclusion: Still baffled. Data point acquired. Meaning? Unknown. Further awkward investigation required."

Click.

She sighed, leaned against the wall.

"Ten hours of training, huh?" she muttered. "Well, I had a pretty exhausting experience too, Vegeta. And you don't see me punching drones into oblivion."

The next week was a blur.

Vegeta hurled himself into a Super Saiyan regimen with the fervor of a man outrunning something invisible and vast. He trained with brutal intensity, eating and sleeping in bare minimums. His already limited vocabulary shrank further—grunts and glares were the primary forms of communication.

At first, Bulma assumed he was still avoiding her.

But soon, the truth became obvious: he wasn't avoiding her.

He was just... gone.

Swallowed up by his drive. Haunted. Desperate. Not for her, maybe—but for something. Power. Control. Redemption. Who knew.

It was the kind of obsession she usually admired in inventors on the brink of discovery.

But this was different.

This felt like survival.

It made her feel strangely still by comparison. Unmoored.

So, she did what she always did when emotions got messy:

She buried herself in work.

They'd had sex. So what?

Two adults. No strings. No expectations. It didn't mean anything.

(Except it did, whispered that insufferable voice she refused to dignify.)

She focused on her new project instead: the updated combat armor. A sleek, flexible alloy with reinforced chest plating and improved impact resistance. Her own breakthrough—tangible, controlled, hers.

When the prototype was ready, she marched into the gravity room like nothing had happened.

"This is just a prototype," she announced, chipper as hell. "Flexible fiber alloy base, higher impact tolerance, breathable, and—bonus—your precious range of motion stays intact."

Vegeta said nothing.

Not when she entered. Not during her pitch. Not even when she stepped in close and adjusted the collar, fingers brushing over his skin.

He just stood there, rigid, letting her work—like a mannequin carved from pure tension.

Maybe he didn't understand a word I just said.
Maybe he just doesn't care.

"Alright!" she clapped, stepping back. "Time for a live test."

His brow twitched. "What?"

"Don't worry," she chirped, already summoning the drone. "This is a level three sim. Full power."

His scowl deepened. "Woman, those drones—your father just recalibrated them. If they fire at full—"

Too late. She was already tapping commands into her wrist interface.

"Live fire simulation. Level three. Begin!"

The drone lit up. Fired.

The energy blast slammed into Vegeta's chest—and stopped.

The armor absorbed the hit, flaring brightly before dimming back down. No damage. No stumble. Just shock on Vegeta's face.

Bulma squealed.

"Oh my god, it worked! It actually worked!" She did a triumphant little spin. "Did you feel that? Direct hit, and you didn't even flinch!"

Vegeta glanced down at the armor. Then at the drone. Then at her.

Still silent.

Expression unreadable.

Then—finally—

"You're some kind of mad scientist, aren't you?"

Bulma grinned, unlocking the chest plating with a practiced flick.

"A hot mad scientist," she corrected breezily—too easily.

The moment hung.

Her hands were on his chest.

She was close. Too close. Talking to him like the last week hadn't happened.

Her breath caught. She dropped her hands as if burned.

He flinched too. Barely. But there it was. And on his ears—a flush of red.

Bulma blinked.

Was he... blushing?

She stepped back, brow raised.

"Are you blushing?"

He scoffed, avoiding her gaze. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Oh my god. You are." She grinned, pouncing on the opening. "Are you having dirty thoughts about me, Vegeta?"

His head snapped toward her. Glare loaded.

"Shut up," he snapped. "That's not it."

She crossed her arms, smug. "Sure, sure. Just random ear flush. Has nothing to do with being in close contact with me and my hot mad scientist aura."

His growl vibrated through the silence.

"You're insufferable."

She smirked and turned toward the door.

"Whatever. Take the armor off yourself. I've got things to—"

"Wait."

She stopped.

Turned back.

He hadn't moved. Arms crossed again, tension rippling through his posture.

A beat passed.

Then, low:

"That day... don't overthink it."

She blinked.

Then her face shifted—thrilled, then furious.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

His jaw tightened. "Forget it."

"No. Stop with the cryptic crap!" She stepped back into the room. "Do you mean it was meaningless?"

"What? I didn't say that."

"Oh? Are you implying my skills didn't impress you?"

His eyes snapped to hers. Incredulous.

"Tch. You're impossible."

"No, you are! For once, tell me what you actually mean!"

He looked cornered. Pained.

"I…"

His voice cracked.

"I fell asleep because I'd trained all day."

His ears turned scarlet.

Bulma blinked.

Oh.

Oh.

That wasn't a brush-off.

That was an excuse. A clumsy, mortified, kind of adorable excuse.

Her expression softened—just for a second.

Then she smirked, slipping the mask back on.

"Right. Exhaustion. Not the fact that I left you in a puddle of your own drool."

Vegeta growled. "Woman—"

Bulma was already halfway out the door.

"Don't worry, your Highness. I'm sure next time you'll do better."

She tossed the words over her shoulder, casual and cutting.

But they weren't nothing.

Vegeta's face went crimson—ears, cheeks, even the bridge of his nose. He opened his mouth, closed it.

Next time?

The words echoed silently on his stunned face.

Bulma couldn't read him. Not entirely.

But something fluttered in her chest.

And—for once—she let it.

Just a little.

Bulma's Lab – Late Evening

The lab was dim and still. She sat in her chair, hair mussed, tablet in hand.

She hit record.

"Addendum to Recording 004: Psychological Observations of Subject V, Post-Incident Two."

Her tone was calm. Clinical. Except for the grin she was hiding.

"New findings: One—avoidance wasn't disinterest. Just Vegeta-brand shame. Falling asleep mid-intimacy bruised his pride."

"Two—he cares. A lot. At least about my opinion. Today's awkward justification? A clear attempt to save face. If that's not emotionally repressed courtship, I don't know what is."

"Three—and this is critical: his ears. Immediate flush response. Teasing, embarrassment, and... other stimuli. Reliable emotional barometer. Also? Ridiculously cute."

She smirked.

"Conclusion: Subject V is inexperienced, emotionally constipated, and very much affected. Trying to reframe how I see him without admitting anything. Typical."

Click.

She set the recorder down, shaking her head.

"Poor guy never stood a chance."