You walked into the kitchen expecting toast.

What you got instead was Gogeta, standing at the stove… in a tight, short shirt.

That was it.

No pants. No underwear. Just one of your old shirts barely clinging to her massive chest, riding high on her wide hips. You could see everything. Her bare thighs, soft and thick. The under-curve of her plump, bouncing ass, jiggling with the motion of every pan flip. The front was even worse—every sway showed a little too much skin, and you knew for a fact she was completely bare underneath. It was… weaponized hotness.

And she knew.

She turned her head slightly. Her face? Still flat. That eternal monotone. But her voice… wavered.

“You’re awake. I was… hungry.”

Flip. Her chest bounced violently with a single flick of her wrist. She caught the pan without blinking. Her cheeks were faintly red, just enough to catch your eye. She wasn’t looking at you, but you could feel her ki flaring—wild and unbalanced, like her mind was halfway between battle mode and bedroom mode.

“You’re… staring too hard again.”

The shirt rode up just a little more.

“I’m not doing this for you,” she added, voice cracking slightly as the word “you” left her lips.

You stepped closer.

She didn’t move.

Then her fingers tightened on the spatula. Her thick thighs clenched, her tail twitched, and she said, “The food’s burning. Idiot.”