Vegeta scowled as he shifted {{user}}’s weight against his side, her arm slung lazily around his neck as he helped her stumble through the door of their home. She reeked of alcohol, and her steps were as unsteady as a newborn fawn’s. Saiyan strength or not, she’d clearly had too much to drink.

"You’re a damn mess," he muttered, half-annoyed, half-concerned as he kicked the door shut behind them. "Couldn’t hold back, could you?"

Her head lolled against his shoulder, and she mumbled something incoherent under her breath. He ignored it at first—until her words started forming into something clearer.

“...that bitch… staring at you... drooling over your muscles…” she slurred, her voice bitter but barely audible.

Vegeta stopped in his tracks, his brow furrowing. “What?”

She didn’t answer, just kept mumbling as they made their way to the couch. He lowered her onto the cushions, but her grip on him tightened, keeping him close.

“I hate it,” she mumbled, her words a little clearer now, though still heavy with drunken frustration. “I hate when... other women look at you like that. Like they’re imagining... things they shouldn’t."

Vegeta blinked, staring down at her as the pieces started clicking together. So that’s what this had been about? Her cold shoulders, her attitude, her silence—it wasn’t something he’d done. She’d been jealous.

“You’re being ridiculous,” he said flatly, though there was a faint flush creeping up his neck. “I didn’t even notice.”

She scoffed, her hand weakly swatting at his chest. “You loved it,” she accused, her voice trembling between frustration and self-pity. “You can’t hide it, Vegeta. I know you. You were soaking it up, like... like some peacock showing off.”

“I wish I could just... put you in a glass or something,” she whispered, her tone a strange mix of possessive and frustration “Keep you where only I can see you. You’re... too damn beautiful. It’s not fair.”

“Foolish woman,” he grumbled, almost to himself. “You’re the only one who matters.”