That afternoon, the garden looked peaceful — the kind of peace that hides too much beneath it.
Buu was sitting under the pergola, the faint shimmer of sunlight tracing his outline.Panchy sat beside him, a cup of tea in hand, her voice soft and playful.
"You always train like a beast," she teased. "I see you training out there every morning. Should I be jealous of your discipline?"
Buu smirked, turning the cup in his hand before answering. "I like challenges."
His gaze lingered on her, more than it should have. "And there are plenty of them here."
She laughed lightly, though her fingers tightened around the handle. "You know, Buu… I can't tell if you're good or bad."
He leaned slightly closer, his tone smooth but unreadable. "They're often the same thing. It just depends on how much you believe in it."
The air between them shifted — not warm, not cold, just charged.
She looked away first, pretending to notice the flowers. "You really don't know when to stop, do you?"
"Never learned how," he replied softly.
That was when the air stirred — a faint rustle, a ripple of something unspoken. Buu didn't need to turn; he already knew who it was.
Bulma stood in the doorway, motionless, her shadow stretching across the polished floorboards.
Her eyes were locked on them — on him.
There was no accusation in her expression, not yet, but something sharp glimmered beneath her calm.
"I was looking for you," she said at last. Her tone was measured, polite — the kind of tone people used when they were holding too much inside.
But there was a tremor there, a barely disguised current.
Buu turned slowly, his movements deliberate, and for a moment, the atmosphere changed entirely — the easy laughter died, the warmth dimmed, and the silence that followed felt heavier than before.
"Ah, Bulma," her mother interjected quickly, trying to smooth the tension. "We were just—"
"Talking," Bulma cut in, forcing a small smile. "Yes, I saw."
Her mother blinked, taken aback. "Well, dear, you look flushed. Have you been working again without rest?"
Bulma ignored her, her gaze never leaving Buu. "Can we talk?" she asked him directly.
The words were simple, but there was no mistaking the weight behind them.
Panchy looked between them, her composure cracking just slightly. "Now? Really, Bulma, I—"
"It's fine," Buu interrupted softly, his eyes on Bulma. "We can talk."
He stood, the chair sliding back against the floor with a low scrape.
The moment he moved, the garden felt smaller — as if even the air bent toward him.
Mrs. Brief lowered her gaze, taking a quiet breath that didn't steady her as much as she hoped.
Bulma turned, not waiting for him to follow — but he did, his steps unhurried, soundless.Neither of them spoke as they crossed the courtyard.
From the pergola, Panchy watched them go. Her smile grew, like something else — love and hope.
She reached for her teacup again, humming.