Krillin's and Gohan's faces turned the color of old ash.
Inside the ship, Bulma felt her knees buckle.
Yes, Vegeta was handsome, devastatingly so, with that sharp jaw and those predator eyes.
But the air around him was pure murder. It pressed against her skin like ice water.
All of this was his fault.
Earth in ruins.
Her friends dead.
Herself dragged across the galaxy on a suicide mission.
And for what?
Yamcha.
The name alone made her want to scream.
She had broken up with him years ago, tired of the fights, tired of catching him with other women, tired of pretending it didn't hurt.
Yet here she was, twenty-nine years old, racing to collect magic balls just to bring the idiot back. One last chance. One final proof he could change.
Because if she didn't marry soon, people would start whispering "left on the shelf."
Because if she let herself go even a little, the mirror would stop lying to her.
Her thoughts were a screaming mess.
Bulma clenched the real Dragon Radar so hard the plastic creaked. Then, with a shaky breath, she made her choice.
"Lucky I'm a genius," she muttered, yanking open a storage locker.
She swapped the real radar for the decoy she'd built "just in case," stuffed it into her pocket, and marched outside before her courage failed.
Krillin and Gohan threw themselves in front of her like human shields.
Vegeta actually laughed, short, sharp, and utterly unimpressed.
As if two ants could block a boot.
Bulma forced herself to meet his eyes.
And Vegeta, for the first time since arriving on this planet, felt something other than bloodlust.
The original Vegeta had never looked twice at a woman. Romance? Weakness. Distraction. Pointless.
But John Max wasn't the original Vegeta.
And now, standing three meters away, was Bulma Briefs in the flesh: blue hair whipping in the Namekian wind, curves hugged by that orange jumpsuit, terror and defiance fighting in those huge teal eyes.
Mm.
Very pretty.
Gorgeous, actually.
The kind of gorgeous that could make a man forget he was supposed to be a cold-blooded killer.
If he didn't already know their future (angry screams, slammed doors, eventual wedding, two purple-haired brats), he would've thought the idea insane.
Words formed on his tongue. Something clever, something teasing, something human.
They died there.
Cold pride and transmigrator awkwardness tangled into silence.
He settled for the only thing that felt natural: looming forward, one slow step at a time, letting his ki weigh on them like a collapsing star.
Bulma's arm shook as she raised the fake radar.
"T-the Dragon Radar…" she stammered, voice cracking. "Take it. Just… take it and leave us alone."
Krillin and Gohan shot her frantic glances: Are you crazy?!
Vegeta didn't speak.
He simply kept walking, boots crunching softly on the grass, until the fake radar was within arm's reach.
Until Bulma could feel the heat rolling off him.
Until her heart hammered so loudly she was sure he could hear it.