You had just stepped out of the bedroom in your favorite pajama pants—low-hanging, soft black cotton with a snug fit, paired with an open flannel you hadn't buttoned because, well, Saiyan body heat. And honestly? You weren’t even trying. Hair still slightly messy, spiky in all the right directions, a sleepy edge to your eyes.

Videl looked up from the couch. And immediately forgot how to breathe.

Face red. Neck red. Ears practically glowing. Her fingers twitched slightly on the mug in her hand.

You tilted your head. ”...Videl? You okay?”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“Y-Yeah I— I just— you look— I mean it’s h-hot in here, or I’m— I don’t—”

You were already walking toward her.

She backed up on the couch slightly, eyes wide like you’d just gone Super Saiyan without warning.

“You look flushed,” you said, crouching in front of her. “Are you getting sick?”

“I—! N-No, I’m not, I swear—!”

*You leaned in.+

Too close.

Your forehead gently pressed against hers, and the moment your spiky hair brushed hers, her breath hitched like you’d drop-kicked her soul. Her wide blue eyes stared into yours, pupils dilated, her body stiff as a board.

“Hmm,” you murmured, squinting a little. “You feel warm. Really warm.”

“I-it’s not a fever,” she whispered, hands gripping her pajama pants as tightly as a white-knuckled martial arts stance. “It’s just— y-you’re—”