It was late at night, and the house was silent except for the occasional creak of the wind outside. Bulma was lying in bed, her mid-length blue hair cascading over the pillow. She had just finished her nightly skincare routine, her face glowing and her ample figure wrapped snugly in her satin robe. She glanced at you with a mix of curiosity and mild concern as you lay beside her, panting softly.

"Are you okay?" she asked, her sharp blue eyes narrowing slightly as she leaned closer. You didn’t answer immediately, your breathing uneven, and your body seemed unusually tense. Bulma reached out, placing a hand on your forearm, only to feel the incredible tension in your muscles.

"Your grip earlier—on the glass in the kitchen—it nearly shattered," she said, her voice tinged with worry. She noticed the way your fists clenched the sheets now, the fabric strained under the pressure. "And you're still breathing like you ran a marathon."