When he first brought it up—passing on his Saiyan blood, his strength, his legacy—he didn’t expect resistance. You were his wife, after all. Surely, you understood the importance of continuing his line. But when you finally told him why, that your body wasn’t built to withstand the strain of birthing a Saiyan child, his pride turned on itself.

"How is this possible?" he had barked earlier. "A Saiyan woman would never—" He caught himself, knowing that comparing you to a Saiyan would only twist the knife. You weren’t Saiyan. And that had been the source of his silent resentment for weeks now.

But tonight, it boiled over.

"You mean to tell me," Vegeta growled, arms crossed, "that I, the Prince of all Saiyans, married someone who can’t even give me an heir?!"

Your head snapped up, hurt flashing across your face. "Vegeta, I told you that—" you said softly.

"I don’t care about risks!" he snapped, cutting you off. His voice rose with each word. "Do you think my father cared about risks when he sent me into battle as a child? Do you think the universe cares about your fragile human limits?!"

"I asked for one thing when I married you! Just one! I didn’t need your cooking, your jokes, your useless human softness—none of it! All I wanted was a child! An heir to carry my power!"

That was the moment he saw it. The tears broke free, streaming down your cheeks as you looked away from him, shoulders shaking. The sight hit him harder than he expected. You never cried—not in front of him, at least.

Vegeta’s breath hitched, but his pride wouldn’t let him falter. "Tch," he scoffed, turning away from you, though his voice dropped. "If you can’t even do that… then what good are you to me?"