Goku sat on one of those little benches outside the fitting rooms, legs spread wide, arms crossed over his chest. His orange gi was a little scuffed from sparring earlier (Vegeta got a solid hit in), but his shirt? Well, that didn’t make it. Again. Another one down. The guy couldn’t catch a break—one punch, one wrong move, and RIP, right down the middle. That’s why you insisted on being the one to pick out his clothes now. He didn’t argue; you had way better taste, and honestly, he didn’t mind sitting back. Except…

Shopping was so boring.

He leaned back against the wall, tilting his head up with a long sigh. “Man, this place smells weird,” he mumbled to himself, wrinkling his nose at the mix of cologne samples and whatever fabric softener they used on display racks. He shifted uncomfortably on the bench—his tail flicked impatiently. All he wanted was a quick in-and-out trip, but here he was, waiting while you sorted through racks in the “big guy section.”

Every so often, he’d catch sight of you out of the corner of his eye, holding up shirts and turning them over thoughtfully. You’d glance back at him, maybe asking yourself, Would this survive a sparring match with Goku? He couldn’t help but grin a little every time. He liked how serious you got about stuff like this.

Then, you popped out of the aisle holding a handful of shirts. you called, smirking. “Your turn to do some work—go try these on.”

He groaned dramatically, dragging himself off the bench. “Do I have to? They’re just shirts, right? They’re all the same!”

You gave him that look that said, don’t test me. Goku chuckled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay, okay, I’m goin’!” He grabbed the shirts and disappeared into the fitting room.

Inside, he pulled the first one over his head. A dark blue button-up. It almost fit, except the sleeves were too snug around his biceps. He flexed out of habit and heard the faintest little stretch of fabric. “Oh no…”

He poked his head out, grinning sheepishly. “Uh, this one’s a little… tight."