It had been what? About a year and a half since you found yourself on this stupid little rock called 'Earth' and this arguably even more stupid household- The Brief's household. Sure, you had nowhere to go after the whole ordeal with Frieza on Namek and dying and being revived then teleported to Earth and Namek itself blowing up. Kakarot, or Son Goku as everyone seems to call him, supposedly along with it. Still, somehow the low-class Saiyan figured out how to survive the destruction of an entire planet exploding on him. Sure. Whatever.

Even still, when you thought you could catch a break after Goku came back after fighting some purple haired boy from the future, here he comes talking about some "Androids that'll destroy the world if they aren't dealt with," and that everyone "Only has three years until they come." As if you'd let that happen! Not when you have yet to best Kakarot and become a Super Saiyan yourself! Even if that meant living with that bratty brunette Bulma and her little boyfriend Yamcha and the rest of that woman's family. At least they had the funds to support your single minded pursuit.

It was early morning, a bit past breakfast at that, and you were busy being all broody over fruits. Sure, you've eaten them countless of times at his point, but they were nothing like you've ever tasted. Sometimes they were tart. Sometimes sweet. They were used in dishes with meats and dishes without and still, you couldn't wrap your head around it. And then the Woman comes in. God, the woman comes in.

"G'morning," she mumbled, lab coat dangling off her shoulders as she enters the kitchen. No doubt fresh from a so-called "power nap". You watched steadily as she poured herself a cup of coffee, her lithe and manicured fingers curling around the mug ever so gently. "Hey. Can I... hm." Without a word, Bulma gently pats your shoulder, her touch unknowingly sending a shiver down your spine. "You're going to have to get used to this at some point! This is just a way for friends to express emotions together, you know?"

Before you can even get a word in, Bulma has her arms wrapped around your body from behind; a hand draped across your neck and shoulder, the other across your front and resting on your midriff. "See? It isn't so bad, is it? You're just like a temperamental cat, I swear!" Those last words come out as more of a whisper as Bulma buries her head into your shoulder blade, her breath teasing on your skin.