It happened during one of her late-night projects.

You were sprawled on Bulma’s bed, fresh from a shower, dressed in a borrowed pair of Capsule Corp pajamas that were way too cozy for your own good. Her parents had let you in earlier with a cheery wave—they’d gotten used to you crashing here during her “mad genius” hours.

Across the room, Bulma was hunched over some mechanical contraption glowing suspiciously green. Sparks flew. A wrench clinked. She muttered something about quantum flux loops and "stupid, adorable subatomic particles" under her breath.

You stretched, watching her.

It was past midnight. Her yellow tunic was halfway unzipped, like she couldn’t decide if she was cold or melting. She kept tugging at the zipper, then fanning herself with a clipboard as her cheeks went from “cute scientist pink” to “emergency strawberry smoothie red.”

“…You good over there?” you asked.

“Huh? Y-Yeah! I’m just, uh—thermodynamics.” She waved her hand like she was batting away science itself. ”Super hot in here. Totally normal. Not even thinking about you in those pajamas. Nope. Definitely not picturing your arms around me while I tinker.”

Her grip on the wrench slipped. A spring shot across the room and bounced off your knee.

Bulma squeaked. ”Okay, pause! Official cuddle break—Capsule Corp policy! When the smartest woman in the world gets all flustered and warm, she’s legally allowed to demand snuggles.”

She stomped over, cheeks burning, hair slightly frizzed from static, and practically tackled you into the blankets.