#personal instructor | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lilyswrittenworks · 2 months ago

Text

XXI | Getting Properly Acquainted

Warning(s): Cursing, blood, alcohol consumption, humor, and sensitive topics (it's only mentioned once!)

Word Count: 11.3K

Synopsis: It had been three months since you and Piccolo had become an item. You had experienced nothing but pure love and tenderness. Then one day you get a text message.

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

“Heey, girl! In celebration of your speedy recovery, I thought it was time to gather up our friends and hang out for old time’s sake. Meet us at Way Out Bar at 7PM this Saturday!”

It had been over an hour since you’d gotten Jenny’s message, and you were still riding the high of excitement it brought. You lay sprawled on your bed, the phone still open in your hand, the message burning bright on the screen like a warm little beacon of joy.

This would be your first time seeing all of them outside the sterile white walls of the hospital. No wires. No beeping monitors. No faint scent of antiseptic in the air. Just you, your friends, and a night that promised to feel like living again. The last time you saw them, you were weak, barely able to sit up straight. They’d come in shifts with flowers, chocolates, gossip, and laughter—but it never felt right. You were smiling through the pain. Numb with fatigue. And now?

Thanks to Dende's healing, you were whole again. And it was time to live.

Your closet doors were already flung open, and the bed behind you looked like a fashion tornado had ripped through it. Jumpers, jeans, crop tops, rompers, even that one weird sequin top Jenny got you as a gag gift—it was all strewn about in the chaos of indecision.

“A dress?” you muttered to yourself, holding one up in front of the mirror before shaking your head. “Too fancy. Too ‘wedding guest.’” You tossed it aside. “Romper. Yeah. Romper is fun. Playful. Breezy. Easy to pee in…”

You snorted to yourself and held two up side by side: one black with delicate gold thread running through it, and another with a warm burgundy floral print that hugged your curves just right.

And then, it hit you—an idea that completely derailed your train of thought.

What if Piccolo came with you?

Your hands slowly lowered, the rompers falling forgotten onto the bed as your arms crossed over your chest, the spark of curiosity giving way to a gentle flutter in your chest.

Would he go?

You could already imagine their reactions. Jenny would 100% scream. Amelia would probably drop her drink. Henry might start interrogating him like an overprotective big brother. Elias would be welcoming without judgment. Luka will be cautious around new people. But deep down, you wanted your friends to meet him—to see what you saw. You weren’t just dating someone… you were in love with someone utterly unique. Quiet, mysterious, incredibly powerful, and yet… gentle with you in a way few got to witness.

But then, doubt slipped in like a cold draft.

Piccolo wasn’t a social person. You knew that. You respected that. He barely spoke during your classes unless prompted, and even then it was usually concise, pointed advice that made your students straighten up like soldiers under a general’s command. He tolerated public settings. Barely. And even then, only because he wanted to support you.

What if he didn’t want to come? What if he thought this was too much?

You let out a soft groan, burying your face in your hands for a second before slapping your cheeks lightly and straightening up. “Alright. No more overthinking. Just ask him. What’s the worst that could happen? He says no? I can live with that.”

Even if his brand of ‘no’ was usually a vague, broody grunt followed by meditative silence.

Fueled by that little ember of determination, you padded barefoot down the stairs, the wood creaking slightly under your feet. You caught the faint sound of the wind rustling through the trees outside, mingling with the faint ticking of the clock in the hallway. As you turned the corner and entered the living room, your voice called out casually:

“Hey, Piccolo, I was wondering if—”

You froze.

There he was, sitting cross-legged in the center of the room. Turban and cape nowhere in sight. Eyes closed in a serene expression. And… shirtless.

Your words caught in your throat like a fishhook. Your eyes, despite your best intentions, shamelessly took in the details—the broad expanse of his chest, the sharp cut of his abdominal muscles, the intricate, dark-lined streaks running across his arms and lower abdomen. The pink, fleshy patches on his arms glowed subtly under the soft afternoon light bleeding through the windows, framed by those bold red edges that almost dared your eyes to keep tracing along them.

Goddamn, you thought, your heart pounding so hard it felt like it might punch a hole in your ribcage.

The thought of just running your hands down his muscles caused your heart to flutter. You swallowed thickly, blinking rapidly—and that’s when you felt it.

A warm trickle.

You slapped a hand to your face. Oh no.

Yep. Nosebleed. Of course your body would betray you at a time like this.

“Uhh, w-why are you shirtless??” you managed, your voice breaking slightly like you were a teenager catching her crush in the locker room.

Piccolo’s eyes opened slowly, calm and unbothered, and they immediately locked onto yours. There was the tiniest flicker of amusement there, almost hidden—like a single ripple on an otherwise still lake.

“You told me to give it to you,” he said plainly. “You noticed the stain and insisted on washing it.”

Oh. Right.

You did say that. He’d tried to argue, something about materializing a clean one instantly, but you’d been adamant. You said it was about principle, that he should let you take care of him in small ways like that.

And he’d let you. No further protest. Just that quiet, reluctant acceptance he always offered when he couldn’t argue with your heart.

Still, standing there with a tissue now clamped to your nose and your face hotter than the sun, all you could do was laugh awkwardly.

“Right. I, uh… forgot.”

Piccolo raised a brow slightly, still watching you with quiet curiosity. “You okay?”

“Yep. Totally. Fine. Just… overheating. From the heater.” You gestured vaguely to nothing. “Which is off. But still.”

He made a soft, skeptical sound in the back of his throat, but said nothing. His eyes lingered on you for a moment longer—serious, yet gentle.

You rubbed at the back of your neck awkwardly, but the fluttering in your chest hadn’t gone away.

“Anyway, uh… I was actually coming down to ask if you wanted to go somewhere. With me. On Saturday night.”

Piccolo blinked, his head tilting slightly, his antenna's swaying gently by the movement. “Where?”

You smiled, stepping a little closer, the butterflies multiplying. “It’s just a casual get-together. My friends and I are meeting at this bar we always go to. I thought… maybe you'd like to come? Meet them? I mean—you don't have to. I know crowds aren't really your thing, but—”

He didn’t answer right away. Just watched you. Thoughtful. Quiet.

And then, he spoke.

“…I’ll think about it.”

Which, in Piccolo-speak, was about as close to a “maybe” as you were going to get.

You beamed. “Okay. That’s fair.”

He nodded once, his expression unreadable—but there was a softness behind his eyes that didn’t go unnoticed.

And just like that, the thought of Saturday night got a whole lot more exciting.

Even if you’d need to keep a fresh tissue box nearby. Just in case.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘✧──────✧₊∘✧──────✧₊∘✧──────✧₊∘

It was finally Saturday.

The sky outside your window had just begun to soften into gold, the sun dipping low on the horizon like it, too, was getting dressed for a night out. The faint hum of life was beginning to pick up in the surrounding forest area of your home—crickets began to sing, the chirping of foxes emanated somewhere deep within the treeline. But all of that faded into background noise as you glanced at the clock:

6:01 PM.

Only one hour until you were meeting your friends at the Way Out Bar. You couldn’t sit still.

You were practically buzzing as you made the final touches to your look in the mirror mounted on the living room wall. The beige floral jumpsuit hugged your figure just right—cute but comfy—and your hair, twisted into a half-up braid, framed your face in a way that made you feel genuinely beautiful. Confident. Alive.

But the real surprise of the evening wasn’t your outfit or even the gathering itself.

It was the seven-foot-five Namekian standing behind you—who, for the first time since you’d known him, was visibly anxious.

You caught a glimpse of him in the mirror, his posture stiff, arms at his sides, and a furrow etched deep between his brows as he focused on the conjured outfit slowly materializing over his usual gi. The transformation was fascinating to watch—energy rippling over his body as purple fabric gave way to crisp white.

You turned to face him fully.

Gone was the worn, battle-weathered gi. In its place: a neatly pressed white button-down shirt, a dark blue tie perfectly knotted at his neck, slim-fitting purple slacks, and polished dress shoes that looked almost too clean—like he’d never worn a pair in his life. He stood in the center of your living room, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves with all the grace of someone performing open-heart surgery.

Your lips curled into a smile, warm and amused.

“Piccolo,” you said gently, stepping closer, “relax. You don’t have to dress up to look presentable. Your regular attire is fine. Well, okay, maybe leave the weighted turban and cape at home—unless you plan on knocking over coat racks everywhere we go.”

He paused, slowly glancing at you, eyes narrowed in thought. “I want to make a good impression,” he said, voice low, almost hesitant. “These are people important to you. I should look… appropriate.”

There it was—that unexpected vulnerability that made your heart squeeze every time you saw it peek through his normally unshakable exterior. You could see it in the way his antennae twitched faintly, the way his fingers fidgeted with the hem of his shirt as though unsure whether to tuck or untuck it.

You softened. “Hey.” You moved to stand directly in front of him, tilting your head back to meet his eyes. “You look very appropriate, trust me. Although…”

You stepped closer, fingers lifting to the knot of his tie. “This?” You tugged it gently, sliding it loose from his collar and tossing it over your shoulder. “This is a little too formal. We’re going to a bar, not a business conference.”

He didn’t protest, just watched you with those intense dark eyes, unreadable except for the faintest hint of tension in his brow.

You reached for the top buttons of his shirt next, undoing two with a soft, confident smile. “There,” you murmured, “much better.” Your fingertips brushed his collarbone, and you felt the way he tensed slightly beneath your touch—subtle, but telling.

“You’ve got nothing to worry about,” you added, stepping back to admire the results. “Just roll your sleeves up to the elbows, and you’re golden.”

Piccolo didn’t respond right away. He just stood there, staring at you.

Not with his usual blank stoicism.

There was something in his expression now… quiet awe. The kind of gaze someone gives when they realize, all at once, that they’re standing in the presence of someone they deeply cherish. Someone who saw through all the layers of who they were and loved them not in spite of it, but because of it.

It nearly knocked the breath out of you.

Wordlessly, he began to roll his sleeves up, his movements slower now, more deliberate. He wasn’t just adjusting his look anymore—he was adjusting to the idea of being seen by the people in your life. Letting them glimpse a side of him he rarely, if ever, revealed.

A side that belonged only to you.

“You really think this is okay?” he asked, a rare thread of uncertainty woven into his voice.

You stepped closer again, smoothing your hands over the front of his shirt with a small smile. “More than okay,” you said, looking up into his eyes. “You look great. And… I’m really happy you’re doing this.”

His gaze lingered on yours, and for a moment, he just breathed. Then, finally, he nodded.

“…Alright,” he said. “Let’s go meet your friends.”

You nodded eagerly, practically bouncing on your heels as you spun on your toes, the fabric of your jumpsuit swishing gently with the motion. You made your way toward the kitchen, grabbing your black quilted purse from the counter and slipping the strap over your shoulder in one smooth movement. Your hand followed next to the set of car keys sitting beside a stack of unopened mail.

With a gleam in your eye, you turned back toward Piccolo, holding the keys aloft like a prized treasure. “Come on!”

You made your way over to him, your fingers intertwining with his large hand, the coolness of his skin a comforting contrast to the heat building in your palm. Without a second thought, you tugged him toward the front door, and he followed wordlessly, allowing himself to be led like a tall, silent shadow behind you. The warmth of your hand in his said more than any words could.

Once outside on the porch, the soft creaking of the steps beneath your feet echoed in the calm of early evening. The sun had dipped lower, casting golden slants of light across the front yard. Crickets hummed with life across the grass. You let go of Piccolo’s hand just long enough to jog down the steps and disappear beneath the porch with Piccolo following close behind. Under the porch was a makeshift garage, small judging by the looks of it but not too cramped either. You approached something large and mysterious that lay beneath a gray tarp.

Piccolo watched you, arms crossed, one brow lifting in curiosity as he tilted his head.

You grabbed the tarp with both hands, bracing your feet against the gravel beneath you, and with a grunt of effort, yanked it off in a dramatic flourish. The tarp fluttered down behind you in a heap, revealing the beauty beneath.

A red and black striped muscle car gleamed proudly in the late afternoon light—its polished surface glinting like it had just rolled off the showroom floor. Chrome accents caught the sunlight, and the tires looked freshly scrubbed. It looked powerful. Fast. Immaculate.

You practically glowed, a wide grin on your face as you pressed your palms against the smooth, warm surface of the hood, practically buzzing with excitement. “I haven’t driven this car in ages!”

Piccolo approached slowly, his sharp eyes studying the vehicle like it was a puzzle he hadn’t expected to see in your possession.

“This is yours?” he asked, blinking slowly as he raised a brow, clearly impressed but trying not to show it too much.

“Yep!” you said proudly, patting the hood. “Graduation gift from my adoptive mom. She surprised me with it right after the ceremony. Told me I deserved something bold.” You laughed softly at the memory. “I’ve kept it in pristine condition ever since—tuned it, cleaned it, waxed it. The works.”

A little nostalgic pride swelled in your chest as you turned back toward him, holding the keys between your fingers. “I’ll be driving us to Nicky Town tonight.”

Piccolo’s brow furrowed ever so slightly. “We could get there much faster if we just flew.”

You stopped mid-stride, your expression flattening as you stared at him. “Piccolo…”

He blinked at your unimpressed tone, a visible sweatdrop appearing at his temple ;as he tilted his head slightly in confusion. “What?”

You sighed, crossing your arms with a dramatic huff that was more amused than annoyed. “I love you,” you said, stepping toward him, “but you seriously know how to kill a vibe sometimes.”

That made him visibly flinch. His posture straightened, and his mouth opened as if to reply, but you lifted a hand before he could get a word out.

“Look, I get it. Flying is faster. More efficient. But I’m not a pro at it like you are, remember? I’ve only just gotten used to hovering without looking like I’m dangling from an invisible string.”

Piccolo exhaled softly through his nose, his eyes lowering a fraction as guilt quietly slipped into his features.

“And yes,” you added, your voice softening as you stepped closer, “I know you’ve carried me before—many times, actually. And I never minded it. In fact, I always felt safe when you did.” You offered a small, fond smile, your fingers brushing lightly against his forearm.

“But just for tonight… I wanna do something normal and least conspicuous. Something a little fun. Take the long way. Play some music. Roll the windows down. And most importantly, to have a good time.”

You looked up at him, eyes hopeful. “Please? Just tonight? If you hate it, we’ll fly next time.”

Piccolo stared at you for a long moment, his features unreadable—but his eyes softened, just a touch. Enough for you to know he heard you. Really heard you.

Then, finally, a small sigh escaped him. “Alright,” he said, his voice quiet but sure. “We’ll drive.”

A grin broke across your face as you turned back toward the car, unlocking it with a click and opening the driver’s side door with a triumphant swing.

“You’re gonna love it,” you called out over your shoulder as you slid into the seat. “This baby purrs.”

Piccolo looked at the car again, then at you, and for the briefest moment—before rounding the car to the passenger side—he allowed himself the faintest of smiles.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘✧──────✧₊∘✧──────✧₊∘✧──────✧₊∘

The city lights blurred past like streaks of stardust, reflections dancing across the windshield in vibrant golds and electric blues. The streets of Nicky Town were alive, but unusually tame tonight—no gridlock, no honking horns—just the soft hum of your muscle car purring under your fingertips as you guided it gracefully through the open roads.

The wind rushed in from the rolled-down windows, warm and fragrant with the scent of nearby food stalls. It danced through your hair, pushing loose strands around your face as you exhaled a small, contented sigh. The radio was playing something soft—low bass, gentle synths, a mellow tune that hummed beneath your skin.

You slowed to a gentle stop at a red light, a slow deep rumble of the engine idling while you waited. Fingers tapping in rhythm on the gear stick, a faint smile playing on your lips as your eyes wandered briefly to Piccolo in the passenger seat.

He looked peaceful, arms crossed over his chest, his eyes closed, the sharp lines of his jaw relaxed under the soft interior lights. There was a quiet serenity to him when he wasn’t sparring with you. His presence alone, even in silence, had a grounding effect on you.

That is, until a piercing, obnoxious whistle shattered the moment like glass hitting concrete.

“Hey sweetheart!”

Your smile instantly dropped. The shift in your mood was swift—brows flattening, your shoulders stiffening as your gaze flicked sharply to the left.

There, beside your door, sat a young man on a loud motorcycle, revving his engine like he was the star of some cheap action movie. His grin was wide, smug, and completely lacking in shame. His eyes—hidden behind tinted glasses—raked over you with a possessiveness that made your skin crawl.

Your face remained stone cold. “Didn’t your mother teach you any manners?”

He chuckled, hand on the throttle. “Aww, c’mon. Don’t be like that. Hop on, yeah? We’ll have ourselves a real good time.”

The nerve. Your brow twitched, irritation climbing your spine like a venomous insect. “No thanks.”

But he didn’t get the message.

Instead, he leaned in further—too close. His arm braced against the car’s frame, body language dripping with arrogance. “Don’t be like that, sweetheart. Someone like you—fine as hell—deserves someone who can really show her a good—”

Wham!

The crack of your fist meeting his face rang louder than the engine ever could. His head snapped back with a choked yelp, his motorcycle wobbling as he gripped his face in agony, blood already spilling between his fingers.

You sat there, your fist still warm from the contact, settling your hand calmly back on the steering wheel like nothing had happened.

“Would you look at that?” you said coolly, voice lined with venom and amusement. “Crying over a punch… from a girl.”

“You broke my nose!” he wailed, nasally and pathetic.

You gave him a scathing look. “You invaded my space. And when a woman says no, she means no. It's not an invitation to harass or pressure her. So why don’t you do us both a favor—” the light turned green. “—and go fuck yourself.”

Without another glance, your foot pressed against the gas and the car surged forward, tires gripping the road like claws. The roar of the engine was satisfying, almost therapeutic. You gripped the gear stick tightly, fingers stiff and white-knuckled from the adrenaline and anger still coursing through you.

“(Y/n),” Piccolo’s tone was low, measured, but laced with concern. “Are you alright?”

You blinked, the road ahead coming back into focus. His voice had always had this strange effect on you—like it could cut through even the worst storm in your chest. You sighed, jaw still tense. “Yeah… I just got pissed off. The audacity of that guy…”

Piccolo was quiet for a moment, arms unfolding slowly as he straightened in his seat. “Does this… happen often?”

You hesitated, biting your bottom lip as your heart gave a tight squeeze.

“…Not like before,” you admitted, your voice a little softer, a little bitter.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him sit up straighter, more alert—his energy subtly shifting from stillness to sharp attention.

“(Y/n),” he said more firmly, eyes narrowing. “What do you mean by that?”

The seriousness in his tone made your hands tremble ever so slightly on the wheel. The streetlights overhead blurred as you entered the parking garage, darkness creeping over the car as you ascended to the upper levels. The interior lighting cast a glow on your face—revealing the way your jaw clenched, the tension in your brow.

You didn’t look at him.

“…Remember when I told you I was homeless? Before the dojo, before I built my home?” you murmured, voice tight. “Back then, stuff like that happened a lot. More than I like to admit.”

The tires thudded softly as you turned up to the third level.

“I was fourteen,” you continued, eyes locked on the parking space ahead. “Couldn’t fight, couldn’t run very fast, and sure as hell couldn’t afford to scream for help. Men—grown men—thought I was easy prey. I learned pretty quick that being polite only made them worse.”

The car eased into the parking space, and you shifted it into park with a small click. The engine purred for a moment longer before going quiet, leaving only the hum of city life in the distance and the soft hiss of your breath.

You rolled up the windows. Just in case.

Then, silence.

Piccolo didn’t speak right away. You felt his gaze on you like a weight pressing against your side, his body completely still. When he did speak, his voice was low. Careful.

“…Did they ever—” He stopped himself. The question caught in his throat, too heavy, too dark to finish. His hands clenched tightly, and a shudder moved through him—subtle but unmistakable.

You shook your head immediately.

“No. They never did.” You looked over at him then, your voice firmer than before. “I never let them.”

He exhaled slowly, some of the tension draining from his posture, but not all of it. His eyes were still dark with something dangerous—something protective.

“You should’ve never had to go through that,” he said. “Not then. Not now.”

You offered him a small, sad smile. “Yeah. But I survived.”

Piccolo’s gaze lingered on you, and then, in a surprisingly gentle motion, he reached out. His hand rested over yours where it gripped the gear stick—large, calloused, and warm. The contact made your breath hitch. His thumb brushed against your knuckles once, twice—slow, grounding.

“You’re not alone anymore,” he said. “You never will be again.”

And in the quiet warmth of the car, tucked away from the world in that shadowed parking garage, those words sank deep into your soul—firm and comforting like roots in the earth.

Eventually, you and Piccolo stepped out of the car and into the moonlight, the glow of the moon illuminating the city. The air was thick with the scents of street food, car exhaust, and pansies as the two of you ascended the spiral ramp of the multi-level parking garage. The sounds of city life greeted you—distant laughter, muffled music, and the steady hum of traffic below. With each step, your anticipation mounted like a heartbeat in your throat.

The two of you merged onto the bustling sidewalk, weaving past people walking in pairs, in groups, or alone with their heads down in their phones. You guided Piccolo with quiet ease, your hand gently looping through the crook of his forearm. The warmth of his exposed forearm brushed against your skin every time he adjusted his stride to match yours—something he did often now, unconsciously. His presence beside you felt solid, grounding, like you could lean your entire weight on him and he wouldn’t budge an inch.

You rounded the corner of a narrow brick antique store that smelled faintly of dust and sandalwood—and there it was.

The sign: The Way Out Bar. Elegant cursive letters spelled out the name in soft neon, glowing in the encroaching twilight. Something about seeing it made your heart flutter. It was just up ahead. Your friends were just beyond that door.

Your grip around Piccolo’s forearm tightened as you beamed, pulling him a little closer. You didn’t notice the way he glanced down at you then, his expression unreadable to anyone but you. There was fondness in his gaze, laced with quiet amusement, and a hint of nerves buried beneath his usual stoicism.

The inside of the bar was a soft contrast to the world outside. Warm, amber-hued lights hung in scattered clusters like little fireflies, casting gentle shadows that danced along the walls. A small jazz trio played on a raised stage to the left, their mellow notes wrapping the room in a cocoon of easy rhythm. The bar to the right buzzed with activity—glasses clinking, bartenders sliding drinks down the polished mahogany counter. The air was a blend of expensive perfume, whiskey, and warm food.

You scanned the crowd—faces blurred together until you spotted them.

Tucked in a corner booth, exactly where you hoped they’d be, sat your small, beloved chaos of a friend group. Jenny was deep in animated conversation with Henry and Elias, her faux locs bobbing every time she gestured dramatically. Elias, ever the picture of chill, leaned back with his usual amused smirk, while Henry animatedly waved a chicken wing mid-debate. Luka sat sandwiched between them, quietly listening, his arms folded and eyes sharp as ever. And then there was Amelia—red-haired, radiant Amelia—nursing the last sip of a martini, her attention elsewhere as her eyes scanned the room.

You gave Piccolo a quick look and an upward tilt of your chin—a silent follow me—before slipping through the small maze of tables and people. He followed closely, careful not to bump into anyone despite his size. His presence alone was enough to part the crowd a little, though he didn’t seem to notice the glances, the whispered curiosity.

Amelia spotted you first. Her face lit up like fireworks.

“(Y/n)!! Over here!!” she called out, waving her arm high above her head.

The rest of the table turned as you approached, just in time for Amelia to practically launch herself out of her seat. She flung her arms around you with an excited squeal, wrapping you in a warm, familiar hug.

“Oh my god, it’s so good to see you! We’ve all missed you so much.” Her voice trembled slightly, her arms squeezing tight. Her eyes shimmered when she pulled back, but she didn’t let a single tear fall.

You cupped her arms, giving a reassuring squeeze. “It’s good to see you too, Amelia. You have no idea.”

“Hey! What about us, huh?!” Henry hollered from the table, arms outstretched in dramatic protest. “The guys deserve a little love too, ya know?”

You rolled your eyes with a smirk. “Didn’t you tell me that hugging was for sissies?”

Henry tilted his head, faux locs bouncing as he scoffed. “Yeah, well—that was before you got fuckin’ shot, okay?”

With a laugh, you walked over and looped an arm around his neck, yanking him into a headlock before giving him a good, affectionate noogie.

“FUCKIN’—WHY?!”

He flailed helplessly, drawing laughter from the rest of the group as you released him, his hands flying up to shield his poor scalp.

“Because I can, you ass,” you said sweetly, folding your arms and towering over him in mock authority.

You turned to Elias and Luka next, offering them both a warm smile.

“It’s good to see you’re doing well, (Y/n),” Luka said, offering a rare but sincere smile.

“Glad you could join us,” Elias chimed in, brushing a strand of his maroon hair behind his ear. “Recovery treating you alright?”

“Definitely,” you replied with a nod. “I’m finally teaching again. The doctors really did their magic.”

You left out the real miracle—the moment Dende’s hand hovered over your chest, and that tiny, jagged piece of death was pulled from your heart. Some things you weren’t ready to explain.

“Hey, (Y/n)?” Jenny’s voice cut in, soft but direct.

You turned to her, eyebrows raised. “Yeah?”

She leaned in slightly, one elbow resting on the table, her other hand casually pointing to the side with a thumb. “So… who’s the big guy?”

Your gaze followed her gesture to Piccolo—who stood a few feet away from the booth, arms folded tightly, eyes lowered and expression carefully unreadable. He kept a respectable distance, but his alertness was palpable. Like a sentinel standing guard.

Despite his carefully conjured outfit—purple slacks, a tailored button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing off his green complexion as well as the pink patches in his arm—he stood out. Tall. Alien. Still. You could feel the weight of glances from nearby tables, the murmurs and curious stares prickling along your skin like static.

Hot anger bloomed in your chest. You wanted to shout Stop staring! You wanted to defend him, shield him—but you knew better. This wasn’t the time. Not tonight.

You inhaled, slow and steady. Let it go.

“Oh! Right!” You gave a small, sheepish laugh. “I totally forgot—”

You stepped over to him, placing your hand gently against his abdomen. He glanced down at your touch, then back at your friends, wordlessly awaiting your lead.

“Everyone, this is Piccolo.” You turned toward your friends again, smiling brightly. “Piccolo, these are my friends. This is Amelia—”

Amelia waved enthusiastically, her red hair swishing. “Hi! You’re taller than I imagined, and I imagined tall.”

“This is Jenny,” you continued.

Jenny nodded slowly, her gaze sharpening, evaluating him from head to toe. “Huh. Okay.”

“And these three are Henry, Luka, and Elias.”

Henry gave a casual wave. “Yo.” But his eyes were sharp, the wheels already turning behind them.

Luka didn’t say a word—just stared, jaw tense, brow furrowed. He didn’t like mysteries he couldn’t solve.

Elias, ever gracious, smiled brightly. “It’s always nice to welcome someone new.”

Then Jenny, voice cautious, turned her full attention back to you. “Sooo… is he, like, a friend? Or, what—an acquaintance of your master’s?”

You smiled, your hand tightening slightly on Piccolo’s shirt, feeling the subtle warmth beneath it. A blush crept up your cheeks, blooming fast.

“Actually,” you said softly, tilting your head up to meet Piccolo’s gaze.

His eyes met yours, gentle and unguarded. That alone made your friends fall silent. They weren’t used to seeing someone look at you like that.

“Piccolo isn’t a friend or an acquaintance of my master,” you said. “He’s… my boyfriend.”

The table went dead silent.

Jenny’s mouth fell open. Amelia’s hand flew up to cover her gasp. Henry’s drink paused halfway to his mouth. Elias blinked in disbelief, and Luka just… stared.

And then, without hesitation, Piccolo’s arms uncrossed and he reached out—resting a large, warm hand against your back, fingers pressing gently between your shoulder blades. Protective. Affectionate.

Amelia squealed, both hands covering over her mouth to muffle the sound.

Jenny stuttered, eyes wide, mouth working like her brain couldn’t form actual words.

“You… you…” she gasped, clutching the edge of the table with white-knuckled hands.

You looked up at Piccolo with a warning smile. “Brace yourself. Jenny’s gonna scream—”

“WHAAT?!” Jenny exploded, shooting up from her seat and slamming both hands onto the table. “YOU’VE BEEN HIDING THIS FROM ME THIS ENTIRE TIME?!”

You giggled, leaning subtly into Piccolo as his hand pulled you a little closer. “Hehehe… yeah. You might wanna sit down, Jenny. I’ve got a lot of explaining to do.”

You glanced at Amelia and gave her a playful nudge. “Mind scooting over? We’ve got a story to tell.”

Amelia quickly scooted over with a grin so wide it looked like it might split her face in two. She practically bounced in her seat, dragging you down beside her with eager hands while patting the empty spot next to you. “C'mon, big guy! No standing on the sidelines now.”

Piccolo hesitated, his eyes flicking from you to the seat, then to the curious faces watching him. For a heartbeat, he looked like he might decline—but then your fingers found his, a gentle squeeze of silent encouragement. With a sigh barely audible over the jazz music, he obliged, sitting down beside you. The booth creaked slightly beneath his weight, drawing a few chuckles from Henry and Elias.

“Damn,” Henry muttered with a smirk. “What’s he benching, like, a small building?”

You rolled your eyes but smiled. “Please don’t challenge him, Henry. He might actually show you.”

Piccolo shot you a side glance. “Wouldn’t be much of a challenge.”

Henry snorted, eyes lighting up at the dry humor. “Okay, I like him.”

Jenny, still trying to mentally reboot, leaned forward and jabbed her finger in your direction. “Start from the beginning. I want dates, times, how this happened. This is—this is massive! I mean, seriously?! How long have you been keeping him from us?!”

You laughed, running a hand through your hair being mindful not to disturb the half-up braid. “Okay, okay, I’ll explain. Just… don’t freak out.”

“I’m already freaking out!” she half-shouted, arms thrown up. “Do you know how long I’ve been trying to set you up with boring-ass grad students?”

“And do you see why that never worked?” you teased.

Jenny groaned into her hands while Amelia leaned in, eyes wide with wonder. “So… how did you two meet? Like, officially?”

You glanced at Piccolo again, silently asking if he was okay with you telling the story. He gave a small nod, his posture relaxing ever so slightly. His hand, which was resting on his lap, subtly shifted until his fingers brushed against yours under the table.

“Well…” you began, launching into the condensed version of everything—your training, how you first met him in the forest, how he became your security guard for your school, the injuries, the long hours of recovery, and how he’d been there. How he’d stayed.

In the midst of your storytelling, a waitress quietly approached the table, setting down a glass of water in front of both you and Piccolo without a word, then slipped away just as silently.

“Hold the fuck up.”

Jenny’s voice sliced through the lingering background chatter like a whipcrack. She froze mid-reach for her drink, arms folding with dramatic flair as she leaned forward over the table—nearly knocking her glass of wine clean off the edge. Amelia, seated just beside her, casually reached out and steadied it without looking.

“You’re telling me,” she continued, brows shooting into her hairline, “that you’ve known Piccolo—this giant green intergalactic muscle mountain—for three years?”

You nodded slowly, already bracing yourself. You even pre-wrinkled your nose in anticipation.

Jenny stared. Blinked. Then exploded.

“THREE. FUCKING. YEARS.”

She threw her hands into her faux locs with a dramatic groan, dragging them down her face like she was physically in pain. “I’ve been to your house! I’ve seen your couch! I’ve watched Netflix in your bathrobe while drunk off Moscato! How the hell did I never see this seven-foot tower of stoic green daddy energy lurking around?!”

You winced, a sheepish laugh tumbling out as you rubbed the back of your neck. A cartoonish little sweatdrop might as well have formed on your cheek.

“To be fair…” you started, shooting a glance at Piccolo—who sat still as a statue, but whose eyebrow had very slightly twitched at the phrase "daddy energy"—“Piccolo isn’t exactly the type to, uh, crash dinner parties or pop in for brunch.”

Jenny squinted at him suspiciously. “So what—you just kept him in your garden like some kind of secret boyfriend bonsai?”

“I’m not a plant,” Piccolo muttered dryly.

You stifled a snort, then turned your attention back to Jenny. “He’s… a recluse. He likes peace and quiet. Doesn’t really do the whole socializing thing unless he has to. And I respected that. Always did.”

Your voice softened as you looked up at Piccolo for a moment, the tiniest smile tugging at your lips. “So yeah… imagine my surprise when he actually said yes to coming here tonight. Voluntarily.”

Jenny’s jaw hung open. “You mean to tell me this introverted Namekian hermit just chose to step out of his weird meditation void and waltz into a bar full of strangers—for you?”

You gave a sheepish shrug. “Apparently, yeah.”

Jenny was quiet for all of three seconds. Then she pointed an accusing finger at Piccolo, wide-eyed and borderline scandalized. “Sir. You simp. And I say that with the highest respect.”

Piccolo, without missing a beat, took a slow sip of his drink. “I have no idea what that means.”

“Oh my god, I love him,” Jenny said, slumping back in her chair with a stunned laugh. “I’m gonna need to write this full timeline on a PowerPoint. Maybe a live reenactment too.”

Henry raised his glass. “I got dibs on playing Piccolo.”

“You’re not tall enough,” Amelia chirped.

“I’ll stand on a fucking chair!”

You snorted, shaking your head with a grin, disbelief written all over your face. “What—No. No one is reenacting anyone, got it? That’s weird as hell and kinda creepy.” You jabbed your index finger at Jenny and Henry, who were already giggling like a pair of kids who’d just gotten away with something. The finger-point was part warning, part exasperated big-sibling energy, but they clearly didn’t take it seriously.

As your laughter died down, you suddenly felt it—Piccolo’s hand shifting ever so slightly where it rested beneath the table, until it came to settle gently on your thigh. His fingers curled softly, giving you a deliberate, grounding squeeze. It wasn’t possessive. It was quiet, affirming. A silent thank you.

Your heart gave a small flutter, betraying how something so subtle could still shake you to your core.

But not everyone was laughing.

Luka had yet to speak. He sat leaned back in his chair, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His gaze, sharp and contemplative, flicked between you and Piccolo without saying a word. His brows were furrowed in that familiar way that meant his brain was working overtime, analyzing every little detail. You’d seen that expression before—when he was worried, when he was watching out for you.

He wasn’t being hostile. Luka didn’t do drama. But he was wary. And considering the kind of shit you all had been through over the years, it wasn’t surprising. Luka had learned to read people like open books, and he wasn’t the kind to trust someone just because you did.

Then finally, he spoke.

“Do you love her?”

The entire table fell silent. Drinks hovered halfway to mouths. Amelia’s eyebrows shot up. Jenny blinked. Henry stopped chewing. Elias couldn’t contain a smirk from forming.

Even the jazz music in the background felt like it dimmed a little.

Luka’s voice hadn’t been accusatory—just steady, calm, but dead serious. Like he was asking the question everyone else was too afraid to say out loud.

You turned your head slowly toward Piccolo, already feeling the change in his body language. The hand on your thigh had stilled, but there was a new tension there now—a readiness. You glanced up at him, and for a second, his expression was unreadable. A blank mask of calm. But then you saw it. The smallest crinkle at the corner of his eye. That subtle, almost imperceptible shift in his posture.

He wasn’t offended.

He was preparing to answer.

And you already knew what he was going to say.

Piccolo stared at Luka, held his gaze without flinching, not out of defiance but from a place of grounded clarity—like someone who understood the weight behind the question and wasn’t afraid to carry it.

Then, slowly, his head turned. His hand, still resting on your thigh, shifted again—his thumb moving in a gentle arc, rubbing slow, deliberate circles into your jumpsuit.

And he looked at you.

Really looked at you.

The rest of the world faded. The buzz of the bar, the muffled clatter of glasses and laughter, even your friends sitting just inches away—all of it fell into a soft hush.

“I do,” he said finally, voice low, gravelly but steady. “More than I thought I ever could.”

His eyes never left yours.

“You have no idea how many walls I built just to keep people out,” he continued, his voice quieter now, like he was letting you in on something sacred. “Then you came along. And… you didn’t try to tear them down. You waited. You saw me. All of me. And you never once asked me to change.”

You felt something rise in your chest—warm, fragile, powerful. Like something blooming wide and wild in your ribs.

“I love her,” Piccolo said again, this time turning his attention briefly to Luka, though his hand never left your thigh. “Not because she saved me. Not because she put up with me. But because she made me want to be known. And that’s not something I ever thought I’d say in a room like this.”

Luka stared at him for a beat longer. The tension in his jaw softened just slightly, his arms loosening from the tight fold across his chest. No words. Just a small, thoughtful nod—the kind that said: That’s enough.

You hadn’t realized you were holding your breath until you let it out.

Then Jenny broke the silence with a dramatic sniff. “Oh my god, I need a fuckin’ tissue. Who let this be a rom-com all of a sudden?!” She fumbled into her bag for a napkin while Henry, red in the face, reached to his right to swat her arm.

“Shut the hell up, Jen. I almost got misty-eyed and now you ruined it.”

Elias raised his glass. “To love making unexpected house calls.”

Amelia, already mid-sip, let out a delighted little squeal. “I knew it. You two are so disgustingly cute it should be illegal.”

You turned to Piccolo, heart thudding, cheeks warm. He raised an eyebrow slightly—his version of a soft smile—and leaned closer, his voice just for you.

“You okay?”

You nodded, smiling up at him, your hand moving to rest on top of his. “Better than okay.”

Amelia was already halfway through her second drink when she leaned across the table and grinned at you. “Okay, but seriously—how did you bag someone like him? Like, no offense, babe, but Piccolo looks like he could crush a tank with his pinky and then lecture it about self-discipline.”

Henry snorted into his drink. “For real. Man’s got the ‘I meditate in volcanoes’ energy.”

You were about to respond when Elias leaned back in his chair, one arm slung over the back like he was settling in for a show. That lazy, mischievous grin spread across his face like a goddamn wildfire.

“Oh, we’re going there?” he asked, raising a brow. “Because I have questions.”

You already felt your stomach drop. That was never a good sign.

“Elias,” you warned, narrowing your eyes. “Be normal.”

“Oh, I am. Totally normal.” He winked. “I just wanna know how anyone survives a make-out session with someone whose biceps are literally the size of my head. Like, what happens if he gets too into it? Do you end up in another zip code?”

You felt your entire face ignite like someone had lit a match behind your ears. “ELIAS.”

Jenny doubled over laughing. “Oh my god—ZIP CODE?!”

“I’m just saying!” Elias continued, shameless. “Man’s got that ‘destroyer of worlds, gentle lover’ vibe. I bet he’s the type who kisses you like he’s apologizing for every time he’s ever blown up a moon.”

Henry almost choked on his beer. “Brooo.”

Amelia wheezed, gripping Jenny’s arm as tears streamed down her cheeks. “Stop—STOP—my stomach can’t take this!”

Piccolo, bless his stoic soul, had been silently enduring the assault on his dignity. But you felt the moment his composure cracked—a twitch at the corner of his mouth, his grip tightening slightly on your thigh under the table. And when you risked a glance up at him…

He was blushing. His ears were blushing.

And you? Your face was molten lava.

“Elias,” you groaned, burying your burning face in your hands. “You can’t just say shit like that in public.”

Elias grinned, unapologetic. “Oh, come on. You know I’m right. Look at him. That’s not a boyfriend. That’s a six-foot-seven war god who probably calls you ‘beloved’ in the middle of a sparring match.”

You heard a low, amused rumble from beside you.

And when you turned your head, Piccolo—still blushing—leaned just slightly toward Elias with a dry, unamused stare.

“…You think I don’t know how to aim an energy blast?”

Elias paused.

Laughed nervously.

“I—uh—respectfully withdraw the question.”

Piccolo raised an eyebrow. “Smart.”

The whole table lost it.

You were still hiding your face in your hands, shoulders shaking from the kind of laughter that left your whole body buzzing. You peeked up at Piccolo, who looked straight ahead—composed again.

Jenny wiped tears from her eyes. “Jesus Christ, Elias. I swear, you live to traumatize people.”

“I live to educate people,” Elias shot back, raising his glass. “You’re welcome.”

“Yeah? Well next time, educate yourself on when to shut the hell up,” Henry deadpanned, reaching over to flick Elias in the forehead.

Piccolo leaned in slightly, just enough that only you could hear him. “I don’t know whether to be flattered or… concerned.”

You snorted, grinning like an idiot. “A little of both.”

After the chaos of Elias’s “zip code” comment started to die down—barely—you were still clinging to what little dignity you had left. Piccolo hadn’t moved his hand from your thigh, but you could feel the tension in his fingers, like he was bracing for whatever hell came next.

And he was right.

“So,” Jenny began, her voice laced with mischief as she leaned in, her elbows resting on the table and her chin perched atop steepled fingers. Her eyes sparkled like a gremlin with a matchbook. “Now that we’re done with introductions and listening to some good storytelling, there’s only one thing left to do.”

Piccolo blinked slowly. “…What.”

His voice was low, cautious—like a man who had just heard the first note of an incoming disaster siren.

Henry didn’t say a word, but the wicked curve of his grin spoke volumes as he sipped his drink and leaned back in his chair, content to let Jenny wreak whatever chaos she was planning.

“A good ol’ drinking game, of course!” Jenny announced, waving her hand dramatically like she was hosting a variety show. She flagged down a passing waitress without missing a beat. “Vodka. The big bottle, and seven shot glasses.”

You blinked. “Jenny—”

”Seven,” she repeated firmly, holding up her fingers like she was blessing the waitress with divine instruction.

The server didn’t even blink—just nodded and disappeared, probably used to this kind of behavior from your table by now.

You leaned toward Jenny, having to invade Amelia’s space but the red-head didn’t mind, your voice hushed but sharp. “Are you trying to get us all alcohol poisoning?”

Jenny shrugged, already buzzing with excitement. “Oh, please, you and your man have been drinking water this entire time. It’s time to spice things up a little. If we die, we die drunk and full of secrets.”

Before you could argue further, the waitress returned—like the harbinger of doom—with an ominously large bottle of vodka and seven perfectly clinking shot glasses balanced on a tray. She set them down with the efficiency of someone who wanted np part of what was about to transpire.

Jenny clapped once. “Excellent. The blood sacrifice has been made.”

You shifted in your seat, a pit forming in your stomach as you eyed the bottle. It glinted under the soft bar light like it knew it was about to ruin someone’s night. And probably someone’s life if they weren’t careful.

Jenny began filling the glasses like she was anointing each one with a cursed blessing. Then the smell of alcohol wafted up, sharp and unforgiving.

You gave her a deadpan look. “…I’m hesitant to even ask, but I’m asking anyway. What kind of drinking game are we playing?”

Jenny beamed. That shit-eating, chaos-fueled grin that could only mean trouble.

“Never Have I Ever, duh. Classic. Timeless. A sure fire way to emotionally scar each other with no survivors.”

Your soul left your body. “Fuck.”

Beside you, Piccolo raised an eyebrow, glancing down at you. His gaze softened with concern as he caught the tension rolling through your body. His hand hidden under the table had squeezed gently on your thigh. A silent question, a wordless tether: You okay?

You turned your head, meeting his gaze. The worry in your eyes must’ve been obvious because he tilted his head slightly, his antennae moving gently, his voice low enough only for you to hear.

“Is the game that terrible?”

There was something oddly innocent in the way he asked it. Curious. As if he didn’t fully understand what he was walking into but trusted you to guide him.

Before you could answer, Jenny managed to overhear what Piccolo said, cut in, far too delighted to explain.

“Oh, it’s amazing,” she said, spinning one of the shot glasses like a villain in a Bond movie. “Here’s how it works: someone says something they’ve never done. If you have done it, you take a shot. If not, you don’t drink. Simple right? But the real fun happens when the truth bombs start flying. Embarrassing stories. Secrets. Confessions. Shame. Regret. You name it.”

She paused dramatically, raising her full glass toward the center of the table. “It’s a beautifully messy human experience.”

Piccolo listened intently, nodding slowly, though his brow began to furrow.

And when Jenny delivered the part about “revealing embarrassing secrets,” you watched a rare sight unfold—Piccolo’s eyes widened. Just a little. Barely enough to notice if you didn’t know him. But you did.

He immediately tried to neutralize his expression, smoothing it back into unreadable calm.

Only to fail.

Miserably.

You stifled a laugh, squeezing his hand beneath the table.

He leaned close and whispered, barely audible. “This sounds… dangerous.”

”Oh, it is,” you replied with a dry grin. “But let’s just hope we don’t have to reveal anything too personal.”

Jenny raised her glass. “Let the games begin!”

Elias, of course, immediately belted out the first prompt with a wicked grin: “Never have I ever—kissed someone over six-foot-five and built like a Greek statue.”

You blinked once, then tilted your head with the most innocent smile you could muster. “Joke’s on you, Elias. Me and Piccolo haven’t even kissed yet. Unless you count, like… a kiss on the cheek.”

A record-scratch silence hit the table.

“WAIT—” Jenny practically shot out of her seat, hands slamming onto the table as her eyes bounced between you and Piccolo like she was watching a scandalous tennis match. “You two haven’t even kissed yet?! Are you serious?!”

You and Piccolo shared a look, like a secret radio frequency crackling to life between you—one that said here it comes.

As you both turned to face your very stunned friends, a cartoonish sweatdrop might as well have formed on the side of both your heads. The entire group was staring at you like you’d confessed to never having used the internet.

“Uhh… no?” you said slowly, your tone calm but defensive, like you were explaining quantum physics to a table full of gossip gremlins. “We’ve only been together for, what, three months? That’s not nothing, but still early days.”

Piccolo glanced down at you, and when your eyes met his, there was nothing but quiet warmth. His expression softened, and a small, barely-there smile curved his lips—like the sun peeking out behind a distant mountain range. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. The look said it all: he was okay with this. With you. With the pace of things.

You leaned into it slightly, speaking more to your friends now. “We’re taking things slow. I don’t mind the limited PDA. Eventually, yeah, we’ll get there. But not until we’re both comfortable. No pressure. No rush.”

Jenny looked like her entire worldview had been challenged. “That’s so wholesome I actually feel like I’m having an allergic reaction.”

Henry coughed, trying not to laugh. Amelia blinked rapidly like she’d just walked into an indie romance film.

Luka, of course, simply nodded in quiet approval like a dad who just watched his kid turn down a bad idea.

You turned your attention back to Elias, who was still stuck on the previous prompt. “So, sorry to disappoint you, Elias,” you teased, raising your glass with a playful smirk. “But your little trap? Kinda backfired.”

Elias let out an exaggerated groan, dragging his hands down his face dramatically. “Goddammit. I knew it was a risk. I knew it. I was hoping to catch you in a juicy moment but instead, I got feelings.”

He reached for his shot glass, filled to the brim with what now looked like the bitter taste of defeat. “Well, fuck it. I’m drinking anyway. Out of pure disappointment and maybe just a little spite.”

He downed it in one go, eyes squeezed shut as the vodka burned its way down.

“Hellfire,” he wheezed, placing the now-empty glass on the table with a careful thud. “Why is vodka always such a betrayal?”

“You brought that on yourself,” Amelia said, sipping her now third martini glass.

And Jenny, despite herself, grinned too. “Alright, alright,” she said, waving her hand. “I’ll allow it. It’s disgustingly sweet. But I’ll allow it.”

Before anyone could get too sentimental, Jenny clapped her hands together like an over-caffeinated game show host. “Alright, lovebirds, enough of the Nicholas Sparks shit—back to the chaos.”

She spun dramatically toward Henry, pointing a freshly-poured shot glass at him like she was accusing him of murder. “Henry, your turn. Impress us. Traumatize us. Give us something feral.”

Henry leaned back in his seat, one arm thrown over the back of the booth like he owned the place. “Aight, you want chaos?” He cracked his neck with a smug grin. “I am chaos.”

“Oh god,” Elias muttered, already reaching for his glass in defeat.

Henry rubbed his hands together, eyes gleaming with mischief. Then he leaned forward, grinning like the devil about to sign a soul contract.

“Never have I ever…” He paused for dramatic effect, eyes scanning the group. “…accidentally sexted my mom.”

“WHAT THE FUCK?!” You gasped, nearly knocking your shot glass over as you stared at him in abject horror.

Amelia choked on her spit and wheezed like a dying kettle.

“DUDE,” Jenny cried, laughing so hard she was crying, “THAT’S YOUR OWN PROMPT???”

Henry shrugged, shameless. “I never said it was a proud moment. But hey, I learned from it.”

Elias groaned. “That’s not learning. That’s becoming a cautionary tale.”

You shook your head in disbelief, a laugh escaping despite your horror. “Please tell me your mom doesn’t still have the screenshots.”

“She does,” Henry said flatly. “She brings it up every Thanksgiving. I get PTSD from cranberry sauce now.”

Piccolo, who had been trying to follow along with increasing confusion, leaned close to you and whispered with deep, solemn concern, “…What is sexting?”

You nearly spat your water back into the glass. Face now beet red, you turned slowly to him and whispered back, “I’ll explain later. Privately.”

He nodded gravely.

Jenny slammed her hand on the table. “Alright, fess up! Anyone gonna drink to that horrific confession?”

Elias raised his hand timidly. “I mean, not my mom, but my aunt once, so… same trauma, different packaging.”

“Oh my god, Elias.” Amelia buried her face in her hands.

Luka, miraculously, took a sip of his drink too, and the entire table turned to him in stunned silence.

“…Luka?” you asked, blinking.

He sighed, deadpan as ever. “It was a long time ago. Group chat mishap. I no longer text after 9PM.”

There was a beat of silence. Then you burst out laughing. Even Piccolo, confused as he was, gave a quiet chuckle—low and soft—but it was enough to make your heart flip.

Jenny’s jaw dropped. “Did… did he just laugh?!”

“I think he did,” you said, eyes wide.

Henry pointed accusingly. “Bro’s evolving. He’s learning the power of degeneracy.”

Piccolo shook his head, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “No, I’m just trying to understand how any of you survived this long without spontaneously combusting from sheer embarrassment.”

Jenny snorted. “That’s fair. But the game’s not over yet! Who’s next?”

Amelia reached for her shot glass with a cool, almost suspicious calm.

“I think it’s my turn now,” she said, tucking a loose curl of red hair behind her ear. Her maroon eyes sparkled with something dangerous. “And I’m about to separate the saints from the sinners.”

“Oh shit,” Elias muttered, clutching his chest like he was about to be read for filth.

Amelia smirked. She leaned back in her seat, crossing her legs like a movie villain about to deliver the final blow. “Never have I ever… taken a pole dancing class.”

The entire table went still.

Your brain short-circuited.

Your hand moved on instinct—like a damn traitor—and you took a sip from your drink before you could stop yourself.

Silence.

Then—

“EXCUSE ME?!” Jenny screamed, nearly flipping the table as her eyes bulged out of her skull.

Henry choked on his drink. “YO WHAT?!”

Elias dropped his shot glass. “That’s the hottest thing I’ve ever heard—WHY DIDN’T I KNOW THIS?!”

Luka just blinked slowly, eyebrows raised. “…Huh.”

All eyes were on you now as you froze mid-sip, your face glowing red like someone had switched on a heat lamp directly over your soul. You set your glass down very carefully, refusing to meet anyone’s gaze.

“I—okay, listen.” You cleared your throat, flustered beyond belief. “This was before I even became an instructor. I wasn’t trying to be sexy or whatever—it was just a class I took on a whim.”

Jenny looked personally betrayed. “A whim?! A whim?! Girl, pole dancing is a lifestyle. You gotta commit!”

Henry slammed his palms on the table. “I need to know: was it one of those classes with heels and music or like… a fitness thing?”

“I’m not answering that,” you said, covering your face with both hands. “Some of us are trying to hold on to our last thread of dignity.”

Elias leaned in, completely ignoring that request. “You still remember the moves though, right? Just for research purposes. Scientific curiosity.”

“ELIAS,” you hissed, kicking him lightly under the table.

While the chaos unfolded, Piccolo looked utterly baffled. He turned to you, blinking slowly.

“…What is pole dancing?”

Your soul left your body.

Jenny leaned across the table, grinning like a gremlin granted its one malicious wish. “Oh, Piccolo, my sweet green man. It’s like… interpretive dance but vertical. In heels. Sometimes upside-down. Often involves dollar bills.”

Piccolo’s face went completely still, but you swore you saw the tips of his ears—and, if you could believe it—his antennas turned a shade darker. His eyes widened slightly as he turned to you again.

“You did… that?”

You let out a strangled groan. “ONE class! And it was a fitness class, thank you very much!”

“But did you enjoy it?” Luka asked innocently, his tone deceptively neutral.

You threw a napkin at him. “That’s not the point!”

Piccolo cleared his throat, looking forward with the most rigid posture you’d seen all night. “I… I suppose it’s a form of strength training?”

You sighed. “Yes. Thank you.”

“…But also dancing. On a pole.” he added, still clearly trying to compute it.

“Piccolo,” you groaned, burying your face in your hands again. “Please stop.”

Amelia raised her shot glass with a grin, clinking it gently against yours. “No judgment here. I’m just glad someone finally drank to one of mine.”

Jenny cackled like a madwoman. “This night keeps getting better. I swear, if someone admits to joining a cult next, I’m gonna die happy.”

Henry raised a hand. “Do MLMs count?”

Everyone groaned.

Piccolo, still stunned, quietly muttered under his breath, “I’m going to need to meditate for a week after this night.”

You rubbed your fingers in a slow circular motion against your temple, staring down at the table, your face still red as you whispered. “I think… I might join you on that offer.”

Jenny was riding high on the drama of the pole-dancing revelation, spinning her empty shot glass between her fingers like a villain monologuing in the third act.

“All right,” she said, cracking her neck like she was about to commit a felony. “Time to stir the pot again.”

“Oh no,” Henry mumbled.

“Oh yes,” Jenny grinned. “Never have I ever… tried to kill my friend as a joke.”

“Jesus Christ, Jenny,” Amelia groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Elias let out a bark of laughter. “What kind of Looney Tunes-ass prompt is that?!”

Luka rolled his eyes but reached for his drink anyway, muttering something about “That one time with the bear trap.”

But then—Piccolo took a sip.

Everyone froze.

The table collectively snapped their heads toward him so fast it was a miracle no one sprained anything.

Piccolo sat still, jaw slightly clenched, his body tense in a way you hadn’t seen all night. The subtle squeeze of his hand on your thigh was the only giveaway that he wasn’t just casually sipping out of misunderstanding.

You didn’t react—you already knew. He’d told you those stories, the ones from long before he ever imagined himself sitting at a bar surrounded by chaos gremlins playing drinking games. You knew his past, and how much he’d changed.

But your friends? They were losing it.

Jenny blinked. “Wait. Wait. You—YOU?! You took a drink?!”

Henry leaned forward, eyes wide. “Holy shit, was that real? That wasn’t, like… metaphorical?”

Amelia’s eyebrows shot up, and even Elias had gone quiet for once.

Piccolo let out a slow exhale and looked down at the table, his shot glass spinning slightly in his hand.

“It… wasn’t a joke,” he said after a long moment, voice low. “And it wasn’t a game.”

Luka tilted his head. “But you did try to kill a friend?”

Piccolo nodded slowly. “A long time ago. Before I changed.”

Elias, ever the tactless menace, raised both hands. “Bro, that’s metal as fuck. Who was it? Are they okay? Did they… like, get better?”

You shot Elias a look. “Elias.”

Piccolo, to his credit, didn’t flinch. He just pressed his lips together, still avoiding everyone’s gaze. “Let’s just say… there was a time I wanted power more than anything else. And there was someone who stood in my way. He became a rival. An enemy. But… also a friend.”

The table went dead silent.

“And now?” Amelia asked, her voice quieter, more curious than judgmental.

Piccolo finally looked up. “Now, he’s one of the few people I trust.”

Jenny blinked a few times, slowly lowering her drink. “Well shit. That got real.”

Henry coughed into his fist. “Can we go back to pole dancing?”

Elias raised his shot glass like he was toasting to Piccolo’s character arc. “To redemption arcs and not murdering your friends!”

Piccolo snorted softly, the tension in his shoulders finally beginning to melt as he glanced sideways at you. “This game is ridiculous.”

You nudged him gently with your elbow, smiling. “Told you.”

“Still,” Jenny said, pouring another shot, “that was the wildest round yet. Top tier. Ten outta ten. Can’t wait to traumatize the next person.”

Piccolo gave you a side glance, then leaned in just close enough for you to hear him over the noise.

“…Are there more games like this?”

You smiled around the rim of your shot glass, the alcohol warming your throat as you took a slow sip. “Oh, sweetie,” you said, tone light and teasing, “we haven’t even gotten to Truth or Dare: Unhinged Edition yet.”

There was a twinkle in your eye, but you tilted your head, glancing toward your friends—Henry in particular, whose cheeks were beginning to turn bright red, eyes glassy with the unmistakable sheen of a man about to go past tipsy. Amelia was slouched over the table, hiccuping through a giggle, while Jenny was mumbling something about shot glass pyramids.

“I don’t think we’ll get the chance to play it tonight,” you murmured with a knowing grin, setting your glass down. “At this rate, we’ll all be wasted before the vodka’s halfway gone.”

You didn’t notice the way Piccolo’s posture stiffened slightly beside you, how his eyes widened—just a fraction. But the damage was done.

That single word—sweetie—lodged itself in his chest like a live wire. His expression didn’t change dramatically, but the softest, most unmistakable purple tint bloomed across his cheeks. His fingers twitched ever so slightly against your leg. A warmth he hadn’t anticipated spread low in his abdomen, an unfamiliar mix of affection and longing stirring in a quiet, dizzying swirl.

You still weren’t looking at him.

Which, somehow, made it worse.

He glanced down, lips pressed into a thin line, as though trying to smother the involuntary smile threatening to betray him. His gaze flicked back to you once more—so at ease, so effortlessly disarming—and that strange, fluttering heat pulsed again.

He would never admit it out loud, not yet, but that one little word had knocked the wind clean out of him.

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

(a/n)

We finally met (Y/n)'s friends!!

Ngl, this chapter was a lot of fun to write! I wanted to keep going BUT I knew I had to end it off with something disguistingly sweet. 😉

Also—

PICCOLO IN A BUTTONED UP SHIRT AND SLACKS.

OOf 🥵

I was drooling just imagining him walking around dressed up like that. So scandalous, haha. 🥹

Also, also,

Our MC drives a mustang. Hehee. c;

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

Part XX

You are currently reading Part XXI

Part XXII

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

It Turned into Love Masterlist

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

Tag list:

@utakamo

@nerdy-girl-named-pumpkin

@dovah-bee

@thatsbunnysmind

51 notes · View notes

lilyswrittenworks · 2 months ago

Text

XVIII | Breaking Point

Warning(s): Lots of cursing, heavy angst, tension, and crying

Synopsis: Piccolo is struggling to accept his developing feelings towards you and so he does what he knows best; he becomes distant. Hoping that his absence and lack of engagement would deter you. But there is one fatal flaw from this decision: you were a very stubborn person who just wanted to know the truth.

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

It had been two weeks since you first noticed it—the shift.

The way Piccolo's demeanor toward you had changed.

At first, you chalked it up to your own overthinking. Maybe he was just tired. Maybe something else was weighing on his mind. But as the days stretched on, it became impossible to ignore.

The warmth he had once shown you—the quiet patience, the silent but steadfast presence by your side—was gone.

Replaced by something cold.

Sharp.

Hostile.

It had started subtly, in the way he avoided looking at you for too long, the way he kept his distance. Then came the clipped responses, the indifference in his tone, and worst of all, the way he spoke to you as if you were nothing more than an obligation.

That realization hit you harder than any physical wound ever could.

You didn't understand.

You had spent three months recovering, leaning on his strength, comforted by the knowledge that he cared. But now? Now it felt like he couldn't get far enough away from you.

You had confronted him again and again, desperate to understand what you had done wrong. Each time, you were met with the same cold dismissal.

But tonight it all came to a boiling point, you were standing in the kitchen, confronting Piccolo once again about why he was acting out of character.

"Don't read into things," he had said. "I was only helping because you were reckless. That's all. Now that you're better, you don't need me."

That had cut deep.

Like a knife twisting in your chest, reopening wounds that had nothing to do with your injuries.

The words slipped out before you could stop them—an angry, wounded snarl as you shouted at him, defending your choices.

"If I hadn't done what I did, my student would've died! You know that!"

For the first time, you saw something flicker across Piccolo's face.

Regret.

And something else—something unreadable.

But you were too hurt to dwell on it. Too furious to try.

A sharp pain shot through your chest, yanking you back to reality. A strangled gasp tore from your lips as your knees nearly buckled. Your hand flew to your chest, pressing against the source of the pain as you braced yourself against the kitchen counter, breathing ragged.

The regret on Piccolo's face vanished instantly.

His entire body went rigid as his eyes locked onto you, widening in alarm. Without hesitation, he stepped toward you.

But before he could reach you—

"No."

Your voice came out in a shaky breath, but there was no mistaking the venom laced in it.

Piccolo halted.

"Don't you dare," you hissed through gritted teeth, lifting your gaze to meet his.

The strands of your hair had fallen over your eyes, but even through them, you could see the way his expression shifted. The way his hands clenched at his sides.

For a brief moment, you saw guilt.

But you didn't care.

Not anymore.

"Don't you dare act like you care all of a sudden."

Your voice was hoarse, laced with exhaustion and something dangerously close to heartbreak. You exhaled sharply through your nose, trying to push past the pain that gripped your chest, but it was becoming impossible. Your heart was hammering—too fast, too erratic—and deep down, you knew this wasn't good. You were still recovering from the operation from three months ago.

There was only so much your heart could take.

"I've been patient with you, Piccolo," you continued, your breaths coming in shorter bursts. "Trying to see past your cold indifference lately, trying to give you the benefit of the doubt, but..."

You trailed off, your throat tightening.

Seeing him look at you with such detachment, feeling the weight of his cold indifference toward you when all you had ever done was care for him—it was too much.

Another sharp wave of pain lanced through your chest. A pained gasp escaped your lips, and before you knew it, your body hunched over, forehead pressing against the cool surface of the kitchen counter.

You barely registered the movement beside you before you felt it.

A hand.

Warm. Solid. Him.

Piccolo's hand rested gently against your back, his touch impossibly careful, as if afraid you might shatter beneath his fingers.

For a split second, you almost gave in.

You almost turned to him, almost let yourself collapse into his arms where you knew you would find comfort.

You wanted to.

But just as quickly as the thought formed, you shoved it down—deep, deep into the pit of your stomach where all your unspoken words already rotted.

His voice came softly. "(Y/n)—"

You didn't let him finish.

With a sharp inhale, you pulled away from his touch like it had burned you, your expression twisted with pain—both physical and emotional. Without another glance, you turned toward the stairs.

"Whatever half-assed apology you have in mind—forget it. I don't want to hear it."

You reached the bottom step, then hesitated. For a moment, silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating. Then, slowly, you turned your head just enough to meet his gaze over your shoulder.

"If you really feel sorry," you whispered, voice trembling, "then you'll tell me why you've been acting like a total jackass. But you won't. You never do."

Your throat bobbed as you swallowed down the emotions threatening to claw their way out.

"So... stay here. Watch over me. Then Leave." Your grip on the railing tightened, nails digging into the wood. "I don't care anymore."

With that, you turned your back on him.

You didn't look at him again.

Couldn't.

The weight of sadness crashed into you like a tidal wave, pressing down on your chest until it felt like you might break. Your hand curled into the fabric of your shirt, gripping tightly over your heart as tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. You sucked in a slow, shaky breath before forcing your legs to move, each step up the stairs feeling heavier than the last.

Piccolo didn't move.

He simply stood there, watching as you disappeared at the top of the stairwell. A few moments later, he heard it—the faint click of your door closing.

And then the sound that nearly brought him to his knees.

Your muffled sobs.

His chest ached at the sound.

Because he knew.

He knew he was the reason you were crying.

His fists clenched at his sides, his sharp nails biting into his palms until the skin broke. A shadow cast over his eyes, his jaw locked so tightly it felt like it might snap.

A part of him wanted to go to you.

To hold you.

To tell you the truth.

That he was scared. That he felt something for you so strong it terrified him. That he had been pushing you away not because he didn't care—

—but because he cared too much.

But then came the other part of him.

The one that whispered bitterly in the back of his mind, reminding him of what he was.

A monster. A warrior originally born for world domination and destruction. Someone undeserving of the warmth you offered so freely.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

He couldn't allow himself to love you.

And yet...

He already did.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘✧──────✧₊∘✧──────✧₊∘✧──────✧₊∘

You let out a quiet sigh, resting your chin in your palm as you stared down at your half-eaten meal. The food, once warm and comforting, had gone cold, much like the atmosphere of your home since Piccolo stopped visiting. It was strange—how quickly you had grown accustomed to his presence, how easily his absence could make your house feel... hollow.

The TV droned on in the background, some late-night talk show playing, but you weren't really paying attention. Your mind kept replaying that moment—the way your voice had risen, frustration bubbling over, the sharp look in Piccolo's eyes before everything went south.

Four days. Four long, quiet days. Piccolo had never gone this long without at least stopping by—checking in on you like he always did. Even when he'd get on your nerves with his blunt remarks or silent observations, he was always there.

Now he wasn't.

You missed him and every time your mind circled back to him, the ache in your chest deepened. The weight of your own harsh words from four days ago hung heavy in the air. You clenched your fist, fingers curling into your palm as if trying to physically hold back the regret gnawing away inside you.

You had been so angry—so hurt—that day. The bitterness of his criticism had felt like betrayal, especially when all you had wanted was to protect your student. You knew Piccolo had only been trying to keep you safe, but his delivery... his coldness... it had cut you deeper than any bullet ever could.

But now?

Now all you could think about was how he had tried to reach out to you afterward. How his hand—so large, so warm—had rested on your back, grounding you for a moment. How his deep voice had softened as he murmured your name, his rare tenderness breaking through the walls he usually kept so firmly in place. And you had shoved him away.

You closed your eyes, setting down your fork before rubbing your temples.

You desperately wanted to hear his voice again, to have him by your side again. You cared for him, a lot more than you expected and the longer you sat there, the more unbearable the silence became. The realization of what he meant to you—what he had always meant to you—was crashing down like a tidal wave, leaving you breathless and exposed.

You stared down at your half-eaten, untouched food with wide eyes.

"Oh my god," you rubbed your hands on your face. "Oh my god..."

You quickly rose from your stool and made your way toward the glass door. Your chest felt tight, your heart beating faster with every second. The weight of everything—your regret, your longing, your sudden realization—pressed against your ribs until it was almost hard to breathe.

You needed to talk to Piccolo. Now.

But where were you going to find him? Fuck. If only you knew how to fly properly you could've found him with ease, but sadly Piccolo only taught you how to hover to try and cover the basics in flying.

You folded your arms, staring through the glass sliding door onto the wooden porch, trying to come up with something. Piccolo didn't own a phone, so you couldn't even call him to begin with. Fucking hell, you couldn't even feel out his energy signature, because, wouldn't you know it? You haven't even mastered it. You felt frustrated by the limited options you had at your disposal.

Your fingers curled into the sleeves of your hoodie, the chill from the glass seeping into your skin. You stepped closer to the door, your breath fogging up the glass slightly as you squinted into the night. The backyard stretched out into the dark horizon, the faint outlines of trees swaying gently under the moonlight.

Then—movement.

At first, you thought you imagined it. But there it was again. A flicker of white through the shadows, disappearing behind the trees.

Your heart leapt into your throat.

It couldn't be... could it?

You pressed your hand against the glass, your eyes locked onto the spot where you'd seen it. The shape shifted again—a familiar billowing cape catching the faint breeze before vanishing behind the thick foliage.

It was him.

You threw open the sliding door, the night air rushing in and biting at your skin. Barefoot, you stepped onto the porch, the wood cold beneath your soles. Your pulse pounded in your ears, your voice catching in your throat as you whispered his name.

"Piccolo.."

Without a second thought, you rushed across the porch, your bare feet hit the wooden steps with a soft thud as you rushed down toward the yard, the grass tickling your ankles as you sprinted towards the tree line. The further you ran, the harder it became to see, the darkness pressing in on you, but you didn't care. You could feel him. You didn't need to know how to sense energies to know that he was here. He was close, you knew it, and nothing would stop you now.

Your breath hitched, and your legs burned from the sudden sprint. But you couldn't stop, not when you were this close.

There, just beyond the moonlight, was his silhouette—tall, unmistakable, and standing still. His back was turned, his arms folded as he looked out toward the horizon, lost in thought. He hadn't even noticed that you were standing just a few feet away from him.

"Piccolo?" You panted, stepping closer, barely aware of the sweat dotting your forehead.

At the sound of your voice, his body stiffened, but he didn't turn. A long, pregnant silence hung between you. He didn't move or speak, and it made the air around you feel heavy—like you were waiting for permission to be heard.

You swallowed, your throat dry, but you wouldn't back down. "I need to talk to you. I... I'm sorry for how I acted. I shouldn't have pushed you away like that."

Still, he remained silent. His broad back was a solid wall in the moonlight. The tightness in your chest threatened to suffocate you, and yet you couldn't stop yourself from taking another step forward. "But I need to know why," you took in a shaky breath, voice trembling with vulnerability. "Why have you been acting so differently? Was it something I said? What did I do?"

You waited, your heart pounding painfully against your ribcage as the silence stretched between you both, dragging on for what felt like an eternity.

He exhaled softly, breaking the stillness, but still didn't face you. There was a long pause before he finally spoke in that low, controlled voice of his.

"None of this is your fault. It never was."

"Then what is the issue, Piccolo? That doesn't excuse how cold and rude you were to me! Do you even care how you made me feel?!"

Piccolo whipped around, his cape billowing dramatically behind him as he faced you, his dark eyes furrowed deeply. The moonlight illuminated the hard lines of his face, casting shadows over the anguish etched into his features. "Do you think I liked hurting you? That was the last thing I wanted to do. All those horrible things I said... it's inexcusable. I regret it. All of it." Piccolo shut his eyes tightly, his hands balling into tight fists at his sides.

Your heart ached at the regret lacing his words.

"Do you even understand why I left?" he asked quietly, his tone distant. You remained silent, giving him the chance to explain himself. "I had to step back, to give you space, and to give myself time to think things through." He opened his eyes once again to meet yours. You looked so vulnerable under the pale moonlight—your shoulder-length hair unkempt, dark circles under your eyes betraying how little sleep you had gotten. Seeing you like this—because of him—broke something deep inside of him.

"You deserve better, (Y/n)." There was a heaviness in his words, like they had been weighing on him just as much as they had been weighing on you. "You don't need someone like me in your life anymore." He muttered, his voice barely above a breath. "I... I acted harsh on purpose to push you away. To protect you from—"

"From what?" you cut him off, your voice trembling. "From you?"

His silence was answer enough.

Your heart twisted painfully.

"That's not true," you whispered, clutching your trembling hands against your chest. "Please... tell me that isn't true."

Piccolo squeezed his eyes shut, his jaw clenching tightly. Your heart dropped, fighting back tears that were building up at the corners of your eyes. "No, you can't. I—I need you in my life, Piccolo! You mean a lot to me... can't you see that? Don't leave me—please, please...."

His guarded features faltered, his brow furrowing deeply. The sound of your voice breaking—begging for him to stay—shattered whatever resolve he had been clinging onto. His eyes shot open as he blurted out, "Stop that, damn it! You're making this much harder than it needs to be."

"Then why... why can't you stay? What are you so afraid of, Piccolo? Why can't you just fucking tell me for once in you goddamn life?!"

He growled lowly, dragging his hand down his face in frustration. "I'm afraid of losing you!"

You froze.

He continued, voice breaking. "You are everything that I never knew I could have. How can I give you the life you deserve when just being affiliated with me is a bigger danger than you could possibly imagine?"

His mind flashed back to all the battles he had fought—the lives lost, the constant threats lurking in the shadows. Even before he met you, the nightmares of Majin Buu's rampage still haunted him—the fact that you were among the countless victims he'd failed to protect sent him over the edge. The threat was gone now, but there would always be another waiting just beyond the horizon. He couldn't drag you into that... not when your life meant more to him than his own.

You didn't deserve to be caught in his mess—all because of his own selfish desire to keep you close.

"Fuck—do you have any idea how terrified I am to know that I'm in love with you?!"

The weight of his confession hung thick in the air, suffocating the space between you both.

You couldn't breathe—wouldn't—as if any sudden movement might shatter whatever fragile moment you had stumbled into. Your heart pounded painfully against your ribs, your mind reeling from the admission you never thought you'd hear from him—Piccolo, the stoic, guarded warrior... in love with you?

Piccolo's sharp features were twisted in conflict, his jaw clenched tightly as if he'd already regretted letting those vulnerable words slip from his lips. His arms hung stiff at his sides, fingers twitching in small, nervous motions. Even with his back partially turned to you, you could see how tense his entire body was—like he was preparing for you to reject him... or worse, pity him.

But how could he not see what he meant to you?

"Piccolo..." you whispered, barely finding your voice. Your heart ached at how hard he was trying to suppress his own emotions—as if believing they were something to be ashamed of.

He squeezed his eyes shut at the sound of his name on your lips, his breathing shallow and uneven. He looked like he was fighting himself—fighting every instinct screaming at him to retreat.

"I never wanted you to know..." he muttered under his breath, as if saying it aloud made him feel even smaller. "It would've been easier if I never—" His voice cracked, forcing him to stop mid-sentence. He dragged his hand down his face, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. "You deserve someone who isn't... me. Someone who can give you a normal life—a safe life."

You felt your heart twist painfully.

God, he didn't even realize what he was doing to you.

"Don't you get it?" Your voice trembled, the frustration and heartbreak bubbling to the surface. "I don't want a normal life... not if it means you're not in it!"

His breath caught.

"I don't care if you're a Namekian... or a warrior... or if the whole damn universe thinks you're dangerous." Your voice broke, tears welling at the corners of your eyes. "All I care about is you. The man who always puts everyone else first. The man who's been silently protecting me from the moment we met without ever asking for anything in return."

Piccolo's eyes finally flicked toward you—sharp dark irises glinting beneath the pale moonlight. His chest rose and fell a little faster now, as if your words were chipping away at the walls he'd built around himself.

"You think you're dangerous to me?" You took a cautious step closer, clutching your trembling hands against your chest. "The only thing you've ever done is make me feel safe."

He froze.

His eyes locked onto yours, wide and disbelieving—like no one had ever dared to say something like that to him before.

"You don't understand," he muttered hoarsely, his voice breaking under the weight of his own self-loathing. "I could hurt you. Just by being around me... you could get killed. Do you know what that would do to me? Do you have any idea how many nights I've stayed awake... picturing what would happen if you got caught in the crossfire just because you were close to me?"

You could see the haunted memories flickering behind his eyes—the countless battles he'd fought, the lives he'd seen ripped away in an instant.

It was tearing him apart.

"You think you're protecting me by leaving?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. "All you're doing is breaking my heart."

A pained growl rumbled in the back of his throat, his hands balling into fists at his sides. He looked like he wanted to argue—needed to—but the words wouldn't come out.

Instead, his chest heaved with every unsteady breath—his entire body trembling under the weight of emotions he'd spent years trying to suppress.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and took another step closer—close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his towering frame.

"You're not a monster, Piccolo," you whispered, your voice breaking. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me."

His entire body flinched—like your words physically hurt him.

For a long, agonizing moment, he couldn't even look at you—his sharp jaw clenched so tightly you thought it might crack.

But then... slowly, his head turned just enough to meet your gaze.

His dark eyes burned with so many emotions at once—fear, anguish, longing.

But underneath all of that...

There was love.

Raw, unfiltered love—so painfully obvious now that he couldn't hide it anymore.

Your heart skipped a beat, tears slipping silently down your cheeks.

"You really don't get it, do you?" you whispered shakily. "You say you're afraid of losing me... but don't you realize? You've already got me. You had me from the very beginning."

Piccolo's breath caught—his eyes flicking between yours like he couldn't quite believe what he was hearing.

"You love me..." you said softly, testing the words on your tongue.

His gaze dropped to the ground, his sharp cheekbones tinged with that faint purple hue once again.

"I don't know how to..." he trailed off, his voice breaking. "...I don't know how to love someone the way you deserve."

Your heart shattered.

Tears welled in your eyes as you reached out—your fingertips brushing tentatively against the back of his clenched fist.

"You already do," you whispered.

Piccolo's shoulders trembled beneath his weighted shoulder-pads.

For a long moment, he didn't move.

But then—so slowly it made your heart ache—his fingers unfurled beneath yours, rough calloused skin brushing against your palm.

Your breath caught.

He was letting you in.

Finally—after all this time—he was letting himself be vulnerable.

You squeezed his hand gently, grounding him to the present.

"I'm not afraid of you, Piccolo," you whispered. "I'm afraid of losing you... of you walking away from something that's right in front of you because you don't think you're worthy of it."

His breath hitched, his eyes squeezing shut like your words physically hurt him.

"I don't deserve you..." he muttered brokenly.

"But you do," you insisted, your voice trembling. "You're so much more than what you think you are... and I love you for every part of it."

His eyes snapped open, wide and vulnerable.

You could see the exact moment his resolve crumbled—the way his chest caved slightly, his breath hitching in a ragged, broken exhale.

Without warning, Piccolo suddenly pulled you into his arms—his massive hands trembling as they gripped your body tightly, like he was terrified you'd disappear if he let go.

Your heart ached at how gentle he was—despite his strength, despite everything he'd tried to convince himself he was.

You buried your face against his abdomen, your tears soaking into the fabric of his gi.

"I'm right here," you whispered against him, your voice breaking. "I'm not going anywhere."

Piccolo's arms tightened around you, his chin pressing against the top of your head, slightly hunched over to keep you as close as he could.

For the first time in his life...

He let himself believe you.

(4,167 words)

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

(a/n)

FINALLY. The moment we've all been waiting is hereee!

I was going to submit this post early as a surprise for you lovely reader but uh... the power grid on the entire island went out. 😭 I was so sad because of the timing lol

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

Part XVII

You are currently reading Part XVIII

Part XIX

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

It Turned into Love Masterlist

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

Tag list:

@utakamo

@nerdy-girl-named-pumpkin

@dovah-bee

@thatsbunnysmind

56 notes · View notes