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Chapter Text

The room pulsed with the low thrum of bass, strings of golden fairy lights casting a warm, honeyed glow across champagne glasses and half-finished desserts. The post-graduation celebration was in full swing—drinks were flowing, laughter echoed off the high ceilings, and the room hummed with the heady combination of relief, freedom, and a dash of chaos that only a room full of newly degreed adults could summon. Somewhere near the back, someone popped open another bottle of sparkling wine, and the sudden fizz drew a round of cheers. But Gohan barely noticed. His attention was already occupied. Riveted.

You had just walked in.

And gods, you looked like sin in silk.

That little black dress clung to your body like it had been poured onto you by divine hands. It was simple—elegant, understated—but the way it framed your curves, the way it shimmered ever so slightly when you stepped under the lights, the way the hem swayed just a little too short with each step—it made everyone look. Heads turned like a ripple through water. Men lost their trains of thought mid-sentence. Women glanced over, half-impressed, half-envious. And Gohan… he forgot how to breathe.

He wasn’t even drinking, and yet one look at you had his pulse crashing in his ears like waves during a storm. You were beauty without trying. Effortless, wild, soft where it mattered and sharp where it killed. And the soft glow on your cheeks, probably from the champagne already in your hand, only made you look more untouchable. More dangerous.

He looked down at himself—navy-blue shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to show the sinew of his forearms, tucked perfectly into black slacks that were doing a lot of work to keep up with the power of his build. He’d been complimented already. Too many times to count. But somehow, it didn’t matter now. You were here. And when your eyes found his across the crowd, lingering for just a moment too long—he felt it. That pull. That slow, simmering gravity that said: tonight, everything changes.

“Hey, stranger.” Your voice was liquid silk, a little drunk, a lot playful, and laced with something warmer, something older, like you two had been playing this game for years without ever naming it.

“You clean up well,” Gohan replied, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, though his voice was deeper than usual—low, rough around the edges. His eyes dragged over your figure shamelessly, and for once, he didn’t even try to hide it. “Really well.”

You tilted your head, lips curving around your glass as you sipped, your lipstick barely smudging the rim. “You’re staring.”

“You noticed.”

“I’d be concerned if you weren’t.”

You both laughed, and then—silence. Thick, loaded, buzzing with unsaid things.

It wasn’t long before the two of you slipped away. You barely remembered the elevator ride. The hotel key had been slipped into your clutch earlier by a friend, just in case you drank too much to drive. And the second that door clicked shut behind you, the mask dropped.

Gohan was on you like a storm.

Your back hit the wall with a soft gasp, and his hands were everywhere—one gripping your waist, the other cupping the back of your neck as he leaned in, mouth capturing yours in a kiss that left no room for questions. It was hungry. Desperate. Like he’d been waiting to taste you for years and couldn’t wait another second. His lips moved against yours with practiced heat, tongue sweeping into your mouth, claiming you, until you whimpered—soft, breathless—and pulled him closer.

“You’re so damn beautiful,” he groaned against your lips, voice thick with restraint. “I wanted you the second you walked in.”

“I wanted you the second I met you,” you whispered back, letting your hands roam down the hard planes of his chest, feeling the muscle under that navy-blue shirt. “You always dress like you know you’re dangerous.”

He chuckled darkly, deep in his throat, and then you gasped as he suddenly dropped to his knees in front of you.

“What are you—”

“I’ve been thinking about this since you hugged me last week,” he growled, hiking one of your legs over his shoulder as he pressed kisses up your thigh. “You wore that little perfume that drove me insane. Couldn’t stop imagining what you’d taste like.”

“Gohan—oh—oh fuck—!”

His mouth was on you before you could protest, and then there was nothing but heat.

His tongue was sinful—slow, deliberate, swirling around your clit like he had all the time in the world. He moaned against you like your taste alone was enough to undo him, like he needed this. Needed you. And gods, he was so good at it. He sucked gently, then harder, teased with flicks, flattened his tongue and lapped broad strokes that had you clawing at the wallpaper.

You came against his mouth, hips bucking, a strangled sob leaving your throat. And he didn’t stop. Not even as your knees gave out. Not even when you whimpered his name like it was a plea and a prayer in one.

He finally stood, licking his lips like he was savoring dessert, and kissed you again. “Tastes even better from your mouth,” he murmured, and you nearly melted.

The bed was next, somewhere in the blur, and suddenly he had you beneath him, legs spread, your dress bunched around your waist, your chest heaving.

He slid two fingers inside you and moaned—like he couldn’t believe how wet you were. “You’re gonna make me lose my mind,” he rasped, curling them just right, hitting that spot that made you choke on a scream.

You writhed under him, body slick with heat and pleasure, your voice a broken mess of moans and gasps. “Please—Gohan—please—”

“I’ve got you,” he promised, and he did. He fucked you with his fingers like it was the only thing that mattered, thumb circling your clit until you came again, hard and fast, clenching around him like a vice.

Then—finally—he stripped. Slowly. Purposefully.

And gods. He was built like sin itself.

No shirt, just thick ropes of muscle across his chest and arms, every inch of him sculpted and perfect. And when he dropped his pants—

Your mouth went dry.

“Tell me you want this,” he said, climbing over you, voice barely controlled. “Tell me you want me.”

“I want you,” you whispered. “I need you.”

And then he was inside you.

He sank in slow, inch by devastating inch, and the stretch made you cry out, fingers digging into his shoulders. He filled you completely, deeply, perfectly. You felt every ridge, every pulse, every delicious ache as he bottomed out inside you with a groan.

He held there for a moment, forehead pressed to yours. “You feel like heaven,” he whispered, and then he began to move.

It was pure heat. A rhythm that started slow, deliberate, his hips rolling into yours like waves—deep and unrelenting. His hand cupped your jaw, his mouth never far from yours, kissing you between thrusts like he couldn’t get enough.

“You’re mine tonight,” he breathed, voice thick with lust and something else—something dangerous. “All fucking mine.”

And you were. As he picked up the pace, fucking you harder, deeper, so good it made your toes curl, so good it made you cry out and cling to him and beg for more—you were his.

And somewhere in the madness, in the sweat and the gasps and the way he said your name like it was sacred—somewhere, something shifted but neither of you noticed. Not yet because tonight, it was just bodies. Just pleasure. Just need.

Chapter Text

Five weeks. Thirty-five days. Eight pregnancy tests.

The first three you chalked up to expired strips, bad pee aim, possibly witchcraft. The next two, taken with trembling fingers and an increasingly loud heart, were harder to dismiss. Number six was the one that made you sit on the cold bathroom floor for twenty minutes and whisper “no” over and over like it might change something. Number seven you took just to torture yourself. Number eight? That one you brought to the clinic—because apparently peeing on a stick isn’t enough anymore when your entire life is about to implode.

And now, five weeks later, you were standing in the feminine hygiene aisle of a Target, clutching a box of prenatal vitamins like it was ticking, while your phone buzzed in your pocket.

From: Gohan

Hey! I’m at Target too actually.

Your blood turned to ice. You turned slowly, robotically, like maybe if you didn’t move too fast, the universe wouldn’t notice and would let this moment pass.

No such luck. Because there he was. Gohan. Walking toward you. In slow motion.

A tall, muscular Greek statue of a man in a black tee that hugged his chest like it owed him rent, looking unfairly put together for a casual errand. Hair tousled like he just stepped out of a shampoo commercial. Smile so casual, so sweet, like he didn’t have a single clue that your world had been turned upside down and was currently tap dancing on your uterus.

“Hey!” he said, all warmth and sunshine, stepping into your aisle. “Fancy seeing you here.”

You froze like a deer in headlights, eyes flicking between him and the box in your hand. You tried— gods, you tried —to hide it behind your back, but the movement was slow and obvious, and his eyes were already dropping.

“…prenatal vitamins?” he read aloud, voice lifting in confusion before trailing off.

Oh fuck.

There it was. That second. That shift. You could see it click in his brain like the slow turn of a key in a lock.

His brows furrowed. “Wait… are you… are you—?”

You panicked.

“No!” you blurted, way too loud, shoving the box onto the shelf behind you and knocking over three bottles of multivitamins in the process. “No, no, not pregnant. Haha. Pfft. Me? What? Hilarious. I’m just—I’m just holding them for… a friend.”

“A friend,” he echoed slowly, watching you with wide eyes and way too much intelligence behind them.

“Yes,” you said, already sweating, eyes darting around like there might be an exit hatch behind the tampons. “A friend. Definitely not mine. I would never. That would be crazy. Especially with you. I mean—uh—not that it was bad! It was great! Too great. That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

Gohan blinked. “Wait. So you are —?”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “Fuck me.”

He blinked again. “I… I think we already did that.”

“ Gohan. ”

He fell silent, jaw slack, eyes still locked on the prenatal vitamins now lying dramatically at your feet like incriminating evidence. “Wait. Are you seriously telling me… are you…?”

You slowly looked up at him, cheeks burning. “I’m five weeks. I didn’t mean for you to find out like this. I was going to tell you. I swear. I just… I was trying to figure out how.”

Silence stretched between you. The clinking of a cart in the next aisle sounded thunderously loud. Somewhere a child was crying near the registers.

And then—“We made a baby ?” Gohan said, voice breathless. “You and me?”

You nodded, lips pressed tight. “Apparently. Congratulations, dad.”

He stumbled backward half a step like the word physically hit him. “Holy shit.”

You watched him. Braced for panic. For anger. For that flicker of retreat you’d seen on other men’s faces when the reality set in. But Gohan? He just looked… stunned. Like the world had tilted on its axis and he was trying to stand upright. Then, in the softest, most confused tone imaginable, he said:

“But we only did it once. Is that even… statistically…?”

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, well. Congratulations. You’ve got Olympic-level swimmers.”

He turned red. “Okay. Not the visual I needed.”

“Oh, but I needed the visual of you finding out in the vitamin aisle? While I’m having a hormonal panic attack in leggings and a hoodie?”

“I think you look cute,” he offered gently.

“Don’t. Don’t you dare be nice right now.”

He stepped closer. His hand brushed yours—tentative, warm, real. “Hey… I’m here, okay? I’m not running.”

You finally looked up at him, really looked. And that’s when you saw it—the earnestness. The confusion. The panic simmering behind his smile. But under it all… resolve .

“You’re serious?” you whispered. “You’re not freaking out?”

“Oh, I’m definitely freaking out,” he admitted, laughing under his breath. “But I’m not going anywhere. I made this baby with you. I’m gonna be here. Even if I have to Google how to diaper a potato.”

You burst into tears. Right there. In Target. Full meltdown. Sniffling into your hands, snot and mascara and all.

And Gohan? He just… held you. Right there in the middle of the aisle, next to the tampons and baby wipes, he wrapped his arms around you—warm, solid, safe. And you sobbed into his chest like a crazy person while he gently rocked you like he’d already done it a hundred times.

“We’re gonna figure this out,” he whispered into your hair. “I don’t know how yet. But we will.”

You laughed, watery and exhausted. “You really think so?”

“I have a master’s degree and access to YouTube,” he said with a grin. “We’ve got this.”

And as you pulled back to wipe your eyes, you saw it. That flicker in his gaze. The one he didn’t even realize was there yet.

Oh no. He was already falling.

Chapter Text

It started with soup.

Which, in hindsight, was laughable. Soup, of all things—innocent, well-meaning, non-threatening. The great equalizer of care. But somehow, Gohan offering to bring you homemade soup on a Thursday afternoon spiraled into living with Gohan and not even he could explain how the hell that happened.

One minute he was standing in your doorway holding a thermos and a paper bag with crackers and some weird herbal tea he’d asked Chi-Chi about (“It’s supposed to help with nausea! Smells like tree bark but I swear it works!”), and the next minute he was reorganizing your closet into “temporary essentials” and muttering something about how you “really shouldn’t be climbing three flights of stairs every day when you’re barfing like clockwork at 6 a.m.”

You hadn’t agreed to anything. Not officially. Not even close and yet here you were, five days later, hunched over his toilet for the third time that morning, wearing one of his massive black T-shirts like it was your only remaining possession, while the father of your accidental child yelled through the door with genuine panic in his voice.

“Do I need to take you to a hospital?! You’ve been in there for fifteen minutes—babe?! Are you dying?!”

“Gohan, if you call me ‘babe’ again while I’m literally dry heaving over your toilet, I will murder you,” you gasped, resting your forehead on the cool porcelain with a groan.

“Okay, noted. No pet names during puke hour. Got it. Do you want ginger chews? Peppermint? A different toilet?”

You whimpered. “I want to not be pregnant.”

“That one might be harder to fix,” he said, cracking the door and slipping a damp cloth in without looking. “But I can do peppermint.”

You took the cloth with a grateful grunt and flopped back dramatically onto the tile, letting the coldness seep into your bones. Gohan’s apartment was nice—clean, quiet, bigger than you expected for a guy who could bench-press a minivan—but right now it felt like a prison cell made of morning sickness and rice aversion. And don’t even mention eggs. The sight of a yolk made your stomach revolt on a molecular level.

Gohan, in all his well-meaning optimism, had tried eggs exactly once. It had ended with you projectile vomiting into the sink and crying over an episode of Chopped for thirty minutes while he apologized to the chicken population of Earth.

“You feeling better?” he asked softly from the hallway.

You cracked the door open and peeked out with bloodshot eyes. “What part of me looking like a half-dead raccoon suggests better?”

He was sitting cross-legged on the floor with a mug of tea in one hand and your prenatal vitamins in the other, his hair still damp from a shower, shirtless and terrifyingly beautiful in the morning light. He looked like some ancient god of domestic inconvenience—sleepless, exasperated, and somehow still radiant.

“You look kind of adorable,” he said with a crooked smile. “Like a really pissed-off angel.”

“Flattery will get you a swift death.”

“I’ll risk it,” he said, handing you the tea. “You want toast?”

“Is it… egg toast?”

“Okay, rude, but no. Just carbs. Dry and sad. Like my love life.”

You snorted. “You mean the one-night stand that ended with a fetus?”

“Okay, technically not a love life,” he admitted, helping you wobble to your feet and guiding you to the couch like you were a Victorian heiress with a fainting spell. “But I stand by my toast offer.”

You collapsed onto the cushions and wrapped the blanket around yourself like a burrito of rage and queasiness. “You still haven’t explained how I ended up here, by the way.”

He blinked. “I haven’t?”

“Nope.”

“Oh.”

He scratched the back of his neck, looking sheepish. “I think I… steamrolled you? With casseroles and concern?”

“That tracks.”

“I just—” He hesitated, sitting beside you, voice quieting. “I didn’t like the idea of you being alone through this. And you kept brushing it off like it wasn’t a big deal, but I see you. I saw how tired you looked. How you were barely eating. You didn’t even have air conditioning. You were sleeping with a box fan from 2008 and a sock full of ice cubes.”

“I was fine,” you protested weakly.

“You were not fine,” he said, nudging your knee with his. “And I know I can’t fix everything, but… I can make sure you’re not throwing up alone. That’s worth something, right?”

You stared at him. Not just looked at him—stared. At his face, open and guileless, dark eyes full of a worry he hadn’t yet figured out how to carry. He looked so sincere, so painfully, hopelessly sincere, like he didn’t even realize he was being heroic. Like he wasn’t aware he’d quietly rearranged his entire life around you in the span of a week without expecting anything in return.

You sighed, leaning your head against his shoulder.

“Fine. You win. I live here now.”

He brightened. “Wait, really?”

“Yeah. But I’m not changing any of my bathroom stuff. If my skincare bottles get moved even an inch, I’m punching you.”

“Deal. And I won’t ever suggest eggs again. I swear on my degree.”

“Which one?”

“…All of them.”

You groaned and closed your eyes. “God help me.”

He grinned, sliding his arm around your back. “He already did. He gave us each other.”

You slapped his chest lightly. “Shut up, Gohan.”

Chapter Text

The strange thing was how well you got along.

Which wasn’t supposed to be the case, right? That wasn’t how this kind of story was supposed to go. You were supposed to fight. Bicker. Resent each other with a passive-aggressive cordiality only reserved for divorced couples and coworker potlucks.

You weren’t supposed to laugh together over prenatal appointment check-in forms, or eat popcorn on the couch at midnight while watching My 600-lb Life and collectively sobbing over a particularly moving transformation.

You definitely weren’t supposed to fall into an effortless, oddly domestic rhythm in his apartment—one that felt suspiciously like a relationship even though neither of you had used the word.

But here you were.

Sharing a bathroom. A fridge. A calendar. Grocery lists. Dry heaving in unison at the sight of rice. Because somehow Gohan had developed every single one of your pregnancy symptoms like some kind of deranged support act in a surreal circus of cohabitation.

It started subtly—one early morning when you walked into the kitchen to find him leaning over the sink, shirtless and pale, groaning like he was dying.

“…Please tell me you’re not hungover,” you croaked, bleary-eyed and clutching your own stomach.

He looked up at you with dark-ringed eyes, face twisted in horror. “It was the smell of the rice cooker. I swear to Kami it’s evil.”

You blinked. “Are you serious?”

“I’m going to throw it out the window.”

And he did. Right into the dumpster below. You watched it sail with perfect Saiyan precision and land with a metallic clang as he doubled over again, groaning, “I smelled it in my dreams, I swear.”

Later that week, during your OB appointment, he brought it up casually, like he hadn’t been chewing mint gum aggressively for the past four hours in a desperate attempt to not vomit on your shoes.

“So,” he asked the doctor, voice a little too loud, “how much of a myth is that whole ‘sympathy symptoms’ thing?”

Dr. Lian—a woman in her forties with no patience for nonsense and the sarcasm of a battle-hardened veteran—didn’t miss a beat. She glanced over the rim of her glasses and deadpanned, “Not a myth.”

Gohan blinked. “So… this nausea?”

“Very real.”

“The aversion to eggs?”

“Happens more often than you’d think.”

“The mood swings?!”

She raised a brow. “Are you asking for yourself or your partner?”

You snorted. Gohan turned a magnificent shade of red and whispered, “Hypothetically.”

Later, curled up on the couch while he Googled “can men lactate accidentally,” you felt your heart ache a little with something dangerous. Something quiet and warm and curling behind your ribs like a sleepy cat. You were trying not to think too hard about how natural all of this felt. How easy. How right.

You’d agreed to co-parent. That’s what this was. Just two adults trying to responsibly raise a baby together in the chaos of their accidentally intertwined lives. There were no labels. No expectations. Just… shared space. Shared responsibility. Shared dry heaving.

And apparently… shared emotions.

Because the moment Gohan heard the heartbeat, everything changed.

It was a Wednesday.

The ultrasound room was dim, the air cool, the gel on your stomach colder. The technician was humming quietly as she moved the wand, and you were watching the monitor with mild detachment, your morning nausea still humming beneath your skin like distant thunder.

But Gohan?

He was sitting beside you, knees bouncing slightly, hand gripping yours like a lifeline, eyes wide and so hopeful it made your chest tighten.

And then—there it was.

That soft, fast, whoosh-whoosh-whoosh.

Your baby’s heartbeat.

You sucked in a breath. It was real. So real. And fast. Like a little hummingbird fluttering just beneath your skin. Your lips parted to say something, anything—

But Gohan beat you to it.

He let out a choked sound—half gasp, half sob—and suddenly there were tears in his eyes.

Big, open, unapologetic tears.

He covered his mouth like he was trying to catch them before they fell, shoulders hunched as he shook his head in disbelief. “Oh my god,” he whispered. “That’s our baby.”

The technician smiled gently. “Strong heartbeat.”

And you—well. You were gone. Tears spilled freely down your temples, and you didn’t even try to wipe them away.

Because Gohan was crying. Crying. This six-foot-something powerhouse of muscle and humility was crying over the sound of his baby’s heartbeat like it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard. And somehow, in that moment, you loved him.

You didn’t say it.

But you felt it.

And that was terrifying.

Later, you found yourselves sitting on the floor of the baby aisle at the same cursed Target from before, arguing over names like it was an Olympic sport.

“I’m just saying,” Gohan said, waving a package of pacifiers like a sword, “you can’t name a kid ‘Orion’ unless you’re certain they’ll be cool. What if he’s awkward?”

“All babies are awkward. They look like wrinkled potatoes for at least the first month!”

“Yes, but Orion is a vibe. It’s pressure. What if he wants to be a math teacher and hates space?”

“Then he can be Mr. Orion the math teacher! He’ll sound epic!”

“We are not giving him an anime protagonist name.”

“But we’re literally anime characters!”

“That’s meta and you know it.”

You laughed so hard you had to sit back and clutch your stomach.

And when the laughter died down, you both fell quiet. Thoughtful.

“…Do you think it’s a boy?” you asked softly, staring at a row of gender-neutral onesies.

Gohan tilted his head. “I don’t know. I kinda… I keep imagining a girl. With your eyes.”

Your heart squeezed. “I keep seeing a boy. With your smile.”

He reached over, brushed a hand through your hair. “Either way… they’re gonna be loved.”

You swallowed hard. “Yeah.”

And then, because neither of you knew what else to say, you bought a duck-themed blanket and agreed to disagree on the name “Zephyr.”

Chapter Text

The first sign of trouble was the breeze.

Not the gentle kind, not the springtime whisper through the curtains kind—but the sudden, violent whoosh of pressure that came with a sonic crack of displaced air. One moment you were in the kitchen, stirring a cup of pregnancy-approved ginger tea, trying to ignore the phantom memory of what rice once smelled like. The next?

The living room erupted in chaos .

“HI, GUYS!!” Goku’s voice rang out like a fire alarm, cheerful and devastatingly loud, followed by the pop! of a plastic grocery bag hitting the floor and the flutter of movement as three uninvited but wildly beloved tornadoes of energy appeared mid-carpet.

“Dad?!” Gohan’s voice cracked from down the hall, startled and just on the edge of panic.

“WHAT THE HELL—”

“I brought snacks!” Goku declared proudly, lifting the bag as if the gesture alone justified teleporting an entire family into a two-bedroom apartment with zero warning. “Also Chi-Chi said it was time for a visit! Goten picked the weekend!”

“I thought we were going to an amusement park,” Goten mumbled, looking around with a disappointed squint before spotting you. “Oh. Hey! You’re the baby lady.”

You blinked, clutching your tea like a lifeline. “I… yes?”

“You look taller on FaceTime,” he said with the bluntness of a nine-year-old with no filter and big opinions. “But also prettier in real life. The baby’s gonna be strong. I can tell.”

You blinked again. “Oh.”

Then there was Chi-Chi , sweeping in behind her family like a queen descending into her domain, all black slacks and pressed blouse and perfectly curled hair, hands full of Tupperware and intention. Her eyes locked on yours—soft, warm, knowing—and then she smiled.

Not a little smile but the kind of smile that said you’re mine now.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she breathed, rushing forward. “Look at you. You’re glowing already!”

You weren’t. You were sweating from morning sickness and had cried over a cereal commercial earlier. But the way Chi-Chi took your hand, the way she kissed your cheek and patted your belly with an unspoken reverence—it made your throat tighten.

“I brought some things,” she said brightly, already unpacking containers on the counter like she owned the place. “There’s stew and soup and some rice—and eggs, I know how important protein is during the early weeks—”

Gohan, now fully dressed and sliding into the room with wide eyes, froze .

“Mom,” he said slowly. “Please tell me the eggs are hypothetical.”

Chi-Chi turned. “What?”

But it was too late.

The scent hit you first—hot, sulfurous, evil . Your gag reflex fired like a shotgun blast and before Gohan could say a single word, you locked eyes —just one wide-eyed moment of mutually assured destruction—before both of you bolted .

To the bathroom.

Together.

Tripping over Goten’s backpack. Screaming something that sounded like “OH GOD NO.” Slamming the door behind you with a pitiful thud .

The sound of simultaneous vomiting echoed down the hallway and from the kitchen Chi-Chi blinked.

“…Huh.”

Goku popped a grape into his mouth. “They do that a lot?”

Goten shrugged. “It’s like a bonding thing.”

The rest of the afternoon unfolded with a strange, surreal domestic ease—if “ease” could be applied to a household where Goku kept accidentally rearranging the furniture (“It just felt better this way, ya know?”), Goten nearly broke the garbage disposal trying to see if it could “grind a ki blast,” and Chi-Chi somehow took over the kitchen, the laundry, and most of Gohan’s personal authority within two hours flat.

You, on the other hand, found yourself floating through it all like a stunned observer.

Because… they loved you.

So easily. So fully.

Goten offered to teach your baby to fly. Goku brought you snacks every time he passed the couch and told you, in great detail, the exact moment he realized Chi-Chi was the love of his life. And Chi-Chi… gods. She braided your hair, massaged your swollen ankles, muttered things like “you’re going to be a wonderful mother” with such complete certainty that it nearly broke something soft and trembling inside your chest.

But it wasn’t all fluff and sunshine. There was a moment—quiet, precise—when Chi-Chi pulled Gohan aside.

Out on the little apartment balcony, door cracked just wide enough that you could hear the murmur of her voice and the hum of the city below.

“So,” she said, a gentle kind of casual. “Are you and she…?”

Gohan hesitated.

Long enough for your heart to squeeze, even from across the room.

“No,” he said finally. “Not like that. We’re co-parenting. It was… accidental. A one-time thing.”

Chi-Chi was silent for a beat. Then—“But you love her.”

A sharp breath.

“I… don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”

Gohan’s voice was quieter now. “It’s complicated. I don’t want to pressure her. I don’t even know what we are. She’s… beautiful. And smart. And funny. And I can’t stop thinking about her. But we’re about to have a baby, Mom. I don’t want to confuse her more than we already are.”

Chi-Chi was quiet for a long moment. “You remind me of your father sometimes.”

“That’s either the greatest compliment or the worst insult.”

She laughed. “Gohan.”

“What?”

“Just take care of her. No matter what happens. Okay?”

“…Always.”

That night, after the Sons had long since passed out in a pile of spare blankets and empty snack wrappers, you stood in the kitchen in one of Gohan’s oversized shirts, sipping water and pretending your heart wasn’t a mess.

He joined you a moment later, hair still damp from a shower, eyes warm and tired.

“They love you,” he said softly.

You smiled. “They’re a lot.”

“They’re your lot now.”

You sipped. “I haven’t told you yet, but I think it’s a boy.”

He blinked. “Really?”

“I just… feel it.”

He reached out, gently pressing a hand to your belly—warm, steady, grounding. “Then I hope he gets your laugh.”

You smiled and the moment held—soft, perfect, fragile but neither of you said what you were thinking. Not yet because some things, you were both still too scared to name.

Chapter Text

Fourteen weeks.

It was the beginning of the second trimester—the mythical promised land of pregnancy, where the morning sickness began to ease its death grip and the fog of fatigue slowly started to lift like the tail end of a storm. You weren’t exactly bouncing through fields of energy and glowing like a goddess on a skincare billboard, but you were upright again. You were showering on purpose. You were even laughing without immediately needing to throw up. Progress.

There was a little bump now. Small, delicate, still the kind you could hide under a sweatshirt if you really wanted to. But it was there. Tangible. Real. When you pressed your palm to your belly in the quiet of the morning, there was a gentle firmness beneath your skin—a rounding out that hadn’t been there before. Your body was changing. Your world was changing and somehow, despite the chaos and confusion still simmering under the surface, you were excited.

And Gohan… he was glowing.

It was subtle, in that maddening Gohan way. He still pretended not to be obsessed, still kept things casual, still insisted this was all just about co-parenting . But he’d started doing things like reading parenting blogs at 2 a.m., and asking strangers at the farmer’s market where they’d gotten their ethically-sourced bamboo baby blankets. He kept a countdown in his phone. He made spreadsheets. Spreadsheets , with tabs labeled “gear,” “clothing,” and “potential names not vetoed by mom (yet).”

You caught him once, watching you from the kitchen doorway as you stood in front of the bathroom mirror in just a sports bra and leggings, your hands cradling your growing belly. He didn’t say anything, didn’t interrupt—just watched, soft-eyed and still, like he was seeing something sacred.

You didn’t mention it but you didn’t forget.

The OB appointment that week came with its own magic.

The baby— your baby —was the size of a lemon now. A whole lemon. Somehow that comparison made it feel even more absurd. You held Gohan’s hand tightly as the ultrasound wand pressed to your skin and the grainy monitor flickered with movement.

There it was. A tiny, wiggling creature with distinguishable arms and legs, and a disproportionately large head that looked nothing like the smooth fruits you’d been comparing it to on your apps. You gasped softly when the image came into focus—your breath caught somewhere between awe and disbelief.

“It looks like a person,” you whispered.

Gohan squeezed your hand. “That’s because it is.”

The OB smiled. “Strong heartbeat, growing beautifully. You’re right on track.”

And somehow, that one simple sentence made it real all over again.

The next day, you found yourselves in—of all places— Target. Again.

You were just there for socks. Just socks. That’s how it always started and yet, twenty minutes later, you were standing in the baby aisle, overwhelmed, flushed, holding a tiny yellow onesie with a duck on it while Gohan was engaged in a passionate debate with a total stranger about bottle warmers.

“I just don’t think microwaving anything for a newborn is safe,” he said seriously, gesturing with the kind of conviction usually reserved for academic dissertations or literal life-or-death battles.

The older woman nodded thoughtfully. “That’s fair, but this one has a timer—”

You groaned, holding up a burp cloth. “Does this come in beige? Why is everything gray or covered in woodland animals?”

“I kinda like the raccoon,” Gohan said, returning to your side and grabbing the onesie from your hand. “This is cute. You should get it.”

You hesitated. “We still don’t know if it’s a boy or girl…”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, already tossing it in the cart. “Our kid’s gonna rock ducks.”

You smiled, exhausted but warm, and leaned lightly against his side as he pushed the cart forward. You were almost to the checkout when it happened.

You passed a small crowd—a group of young moms with strollers, toddlers playing tag between carts, a baby wailing somewhere in the distance—and one of them glanced over at you, eyes flicking from your tiny bump to the overflowing baby haul in the cart to the way Gohan had an arm instinctively around your waist like it had always been there.

She smiled politely. “Congratulations. When are you due?”

Before you could answer, Gohan did.

“Oh, we’re fourteen weeks! She’s doing great—my girl’s a total badass,” he said with a proud, easy grin.

Your heart stopped.

The woman beamed. “Aww, you two are adorable.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it and then Gohan froze. Like a robot short-circuiting mid-step, realization dawning slow and very loud.

“Wait,” he said. “I meant—uh— not like —I mean, she’s not mine, like— mine, mine. We’re not—we’re just— co- —”

You turned away, suddenly fascinated by a clearance shelf of pacifiers, cheeks burning.

“I mean—we live together,” Gohan continued, now talking way too fast. “But not like that. I mean technically yes but also no. We’re not dating. But I care. Like a lot. As a friend. And parent. And human. She’s not my girl. Or like, she is my girl, but—”

“Oh my god,” you muttered, dragging him away by the elbow as the woman laughed softly and blessed his heart like she’d just witnessed a sitcom crash in real time.

You didn’t speak again until you were in the car, both of you flushed and breathless, your Target bags in the trunk and your pride left somewhere between bath toys and lactation tea.

“…So,” you said eventually, staring out the windshield. “That was… something.”

Gohan groaned, burying his face in the steering wheel. “Please erase me from existence.”

“I would but I’m kind of impressed,” you smirked. “That was a solid spiral.”

He peeked at you, sheepish and wide-eyed. “I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

“I know.”

“I do care, though. Like… too much, probably.”

You looked at him for a long moment. “Yeah. Me too.”

But still, neither of you said the thing. Not yet.

Instead, he reached for your hand as he drove, fingers curling around yours with a quiet kind of ease and in that moment, with the sun low and golden behind the windshield, the world spinning too fast and too beautifully, it was enough.

Chapter Text

There are only so many pregnancy quizzes, ancient folklore tests, and half-baked TikTok theories a person can do before their brain melts into hormone-laced goo—but somehow, you and Gohan had surpassed that threshold and kept going. Because neither of you knew the gender yet, and somehow that had become the most entertaining war of wills either of you had ever participated in.

“Okay,” Gohan said, sitting cross-legged on the living room floor with three open laptops, a spiral notebook, and a half-eaten sleeve of saltines beside him. “According to this Chinese gender calendar, you’re definitely having a girl.”

“That’s what the last one said,” you replied flatly, sprawled across the couch with your hand resting absently over your lemon-sized bump. “But the one before that said boy. And the Mayan prediction system said girl. And the ring test said boy. So what I’m hearing is… nobody knows shit.”

“But I know,” he said confidently, tapping his pen against the notebook like it held the secrets of the universe. “I feel it. It’s a girl. I’m telling you—she’s gonna have your eyes and your attitude and probably my punch.”

You raised a brow. “You think a girl would have your punch?”

“Oh yeah. Saiyan genetics don’t play around. I’m already afraid of her.”

You laughed. “Well, you’re wrong. It’s totally a boy. He’s gonna be tall and serious and stubborn and sweet and beautiful and—” you paused dramatically, “—his name will be Derek.”

He blinked. “Derek?”

You smiled proudly. “Like Derek Shepherd. ”

His expression twisted. “The guy from Grey’s Anatomy?!”

“The guy from Grey’s Anatomy?” you gasped. “Excuse me—do not disrespect McDreamy in this house. Especially after I got you emotionally invested in season five!”

He pointed a threatening saltine at you. “That show wrecked me. I was not emotionally prepared for Meredith drowning and the ferry crash in the same season, and you knew that.”

“And yet,” you said smugly, “you still think Zoey’s a better name?”

He rolled his eyes but smiled. “Zoey is adorable. It’s sweet, fun, and strong. And she could totally go by Zo if she becomes a world champion fighter or like, a pop star or something.”

You tilted your head. “What if we’re both wrong and it’s twins?”

He froze. “…Don’t. Joke. Like that.”

You grinned but behind the banter, beneath the layers of laughter and sarcasm, was something softer. Something heavier. Something neither of you dared to touch just yet. You could feel it in the way he looked at you—too long sometimes, too carefully. In the way his hand always found your back when you were standing near him, guiding you gently through crowds, through doorways, through space like it was his job. Like it was instinct.

And maybe it was. Instinct. This was Gohan, after all.

But it made your chest ache in ways you didn’t have the language for.

“So what’s the deal then?” you asked later that night, curled on the couch in Gohan’s old college hoodie that swallowed you whole and smelled faintly of laundry detergent and cinnamon. “If we don’t know the gender yet, and we’re both convinced we’re right… what happens when the truth comes out?”

Gohan looked up from his tablet, eyes gleaming with mischief. “We bet on it.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Bet what?”

“Winner gets to pick the name.”

You sat up. “You’re on.”

“Shake on it?” he offered, extending his hand dramatically.

You shook it, palm pressed against his, and something in the way your fingers lingered a second too long nearly short-circuited your brain.

“And for the record,” you added, eyes narrowing. “Derek is perfect.”

Gohan grinned. “So is Zoey.”

“Too perfect,” you muttered, grabbing the throw pillow beside you and holding it dramatically against your chest. “What if I start to like it?”

“What if I start to like Derek?”

You paused. The silence stretched, soft and uncertain.

Then you mumbled, “You’d better not like Derek more than me. ”

He looked at you—really looked at you—and his smile faltered for just a second, replaced by something quieter. Something unspoken.

“I don’t think that’s possible,” he said.

Your heart thudded but neither of you said anything more. Instead, you turned back to the screen, scrolling through bassinets you didn’t need yet, pretending your whole world hadn’t tilted under that one sentence. And Gohan, for all his quiet brilliance and careful control, sat there beside you like a man already in too deep.

Chapter Text

Eighteen weeks. The baby was now officially the size of a sweet potato—though, as Gohan liked to point out with increasing exasperation, no one actually agreed on what kind of sweet potato. Japanese? Orange-fleshed? Big farmer’s market mutant or sad grocery store reject?

You’d spent a full ten minutes arguing about it in bed one night, a tub of half-melted ice cream between you, both sleep-deprived and laughing so hard it hurt. And when Gohan declared, with perfect sincerity, “Well, our baby is clearly the alpha sweet potato ,” you’d nearly snorted whipped cream out of your nose.

It was these moments—the ones suspended in quiet, ridiculous joy—that made everything feel real.

The nausea had all but faded now, leaving in its place a lingering sense of hunger that arrived with the subtlety of a freight train. Cravings came fast and ruthless: suddenly you needed mango that wasn’t ripe yet, the tartness making your mouth water at just the thought; or a very specific cheeseburger from a very specific diner across town—nothing else would do. And sometimes it was sautéed bell peppers dunked in ranch dressing like a culinary war crime that only made sense to your body and the little creature growing inside of it.

And through it all, Gohan never flinched.

He became your craving butler—driving across town without hesitation, Googling late-night ice cream spots with grim determination, and even learning how to sauté peppers just right while holding his breath so the smell wouldn’t trigger his sympathy nausea. He started carrying extra napkins in his pocket. Granola bars in the glovebox. Ginger chews in his backpack.

He even bought a small cooler bag. “Just in case,” he said, deadly serious. “For mango emergencies.”

But perhaps the most sacred part of it all—the most intimate, the most devastatingly soft—was the moment he began talking to the baby.

It started one morning after your OB told you the baby could now hear your voice. You were brushing your teeth when he knelt beside the bed, pulled up your shirt just a little, and whispered, “Good morning, little one. Your mom is making me take a walk today. She says it’s for her health but I think it’s just because she likes when I sweat.”

You choked on your toothpaste and nearly collapsed laughing.

But after that… he never stopped.

Every morning and every night—without fail—he would talk to your belly. Sometimes sweet things. Sometimes dumb things. Sometimes updates about the weather or what he’d read in a parenting article or what kind of quirks he hoped the baby inherited from you. And sometimes he’d just hum. Sing softly. Whisper.

It became a ritual. A rhythm. A comfort.

And you started to notice something—your belly would flutter, faint and strange, like the wings of a butterfly trapped beneath your skin, whenever he spoke. It happened the first time in the middle of a walk, one hand resting over your bump while you paused to sit on a bench, the sun warming your cheeks.

“Are you okay?” he asked, immediately crouching beside you.

You stared at him, eyes wide. “I think I just felt it.”

“Felt what?”

“The baby. It was like… little bubbles. Like a flutter.”

He froze, then looked down at your belly with something so reverent it nearly undid you. “Hey,” he whispered, “was that you, sweet potato?”

You laughed, and it was all over for him. The look on his face—pure wonder, pure love—made something inside your chest ache with the weight of all the things you still hadn’t said.

You’d started dressing differently, too. Not out of necessity—your bump was still small, though noticeably rounder now—but out of something else. Pride, maybe. Anticipation.

You’d found a rhythm in your new body, began to dress it not to hide, but to highlight. Flowy tops that cinched under the bust, soft knit dresses that hugged your curves, delicate necklaces that drew attention to your collarbones. Your skin glowed with warmth. Your lips curled with quiet power.

You were carrying life. And you looked beautiful doing it.

And Gohan? Gohan looked at you like the sun had set inside your skin.

He’d glance at you sometimes—when you were getting dressed, brushing your hair, laughing at your own stupid cravings—and you’d catch him staring, breath caught, like he couldn’t believe you were real.

He said nothing. But his hands lingered longer. His voice softened when he spoke to you. And every time he rested his palm over your bump, something wordless passed between you.

One night, as you lay on your sides facing each other, a breeze slipping through the open window and your bodies warm beneath the same quilt, he leaned forward and pressed his lips gently to your stomach.

“You know,” he murmured, eyes still closed, “I think you’re already the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

You were too stunned to speak.

So you just reached out, brushed his hair back from his forehead, and whispered, “You’re going to be the best dad.”

He opened his eyes then—wide, dark, full of something that looked like longing.

But neither of you said it.

Not yet because sometimes the most important things bloom in silence first—just like sweet potatoes underground. Hidden. Growing.

Chapter Text

Twenty-two weeks. You were officially past the halfway mark, and the numbers on the pregnancy tracker app now included wild things like nerve development , REM sleep , and baby can taste what you eat , which immediately made you apologize aloud for the Tabasco-drenched pickles you’d eaten at 3 a.m. (Gohan had quietly taken the bottle off the nightstand after that).

The baby—now the size of a papaya , which felt less cute and more absurd with every passing week—was moving constantly. Small thuds, gentle stretches, tiny kicks that felt like little flutters of wings against your insides. It wasn’t painful, just surprising. Real .

The bump had grown, and you were finally, unmistakably pregnant. No more guessing or baggy sweaters to pretend. Strangers smiled at you in public. The woman at the bakery slipped you an extra croissant “for the baby.” And Gohan?

Gohan was… changing.

Slowly. Softly. Devastatingly.

He walked closer now, like proximity was instinct. He’d started resting his hand on your bump during conversations, like it was a natural punctuation.

He made sounds— tiny sounds —every time the baby kicked: little gasps, little “oh wow”s under his breath, soft chuckles that sounded like wonder.

He hadn’t said it. You hadn’t either.

But it was there. In the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching. In the way he texted you articles about newborn hearing while you were in the other room. In the way he rubbed your swollen ankles at night without you having to ask.

Even the Braxton Hicks had started—tightening sensations that made your breath hitch and Gohan panic . The first time it happened, he’d dropped his fork, vaulted over the coffee table, and demanded to know if he needed to take you to a hospital, call Dende, fight someone . You’d laughed so hard you cried.

“Fake contractions,” you’d told him, breathless with amusement.

“They still count,” he grumbled, kneeling beside you with both hands on your belly like he could physically shield you from discomfort. “If they scare me, they count.”

The day of your 22-week appointment started with mild chaos (you couldn’t find your left shoe and swore someone— Gohan —had thrown it into a portal) and ended with a moment that would be burned into your memory for the rest of your life.

You wore a soft, wrap-style dress that showed off your bump without clinging too tightly, and Gohan wore a navy blue sweater that you couldn’t stop looking at, mostly because the sleeves were rolled and you had a weakness for his forearms.

You were sitting on the exam table, legs swinging gently, fingers tracing the thin paper beneath you. Gohan sat beside you in the little plastic chair that barely contained his frame, one hand lazily intertwined with yours.

Dr. Lian greeted you with a bright smile and a tablet in hand. “So,” she said, “I have some exciting news.”

You and Gohan exchanged a glance. You could practically hear his heartbeat.

“We’ve got all the anatomy scan results back,” she continued. “Everything looks perfect. Strong heartbeat, healthy growth, organs forming right on schedule. You’re doing beautifully.”

You exhaled a breath you didn’t even know you were holding. “Thank god.”

“But,” she added, her smile deepening, “I also know the gender.”

You and Gohan sat up straighter at the same time.

And then—chaos.

“No, no, no,” Gohan said, holding up a hand like a cop at a traffic stop. “We cannot know.”

“We’re not ready,” you said, eyes wide. “We have a system. There’s a plan. ”

“We’re having a gender reveal,” Gohan explained, rubbing the back of his neck. “A… very delayed, probably very chaotic, very Capsule Corp–influenced event.”

Dr. Lian blinked. “Capsule Corp…?”

“We emailed Bulma,” you said. “She’s handling the… logistics.”

Dr. Lian smiled politely, but her eyes screamed: Rich people nonsense.

“Do you want me to send the result to her directly?” she asked.

“Please,” you both said in perfect, panicked unison.

She laughed, nodded, and tapped her screen. “Sent. Good luck. And… wear something washable.”

Two days later, you stood in Bulma’s backyard, surrounded by friends, family, questionable food choices, and what could only be described as a gender reveal battle arena . There were smoke machines. Confetti cannons. A suspiciously large capsule device buzzing ominously in the center of the lawn.

“I built it myself,” Bulma beamed. “No one’s ever done a reveal like this before.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Gohan muttered.

Goku was already holding a plate stacked high with cupcakes and meatballs. Chi-Chi was yelling at Vegeta about baby-safe energy levels . Goten was bouncing with excitement and had already tried to sneak a peek at the device’s inner workings three times.

And you? You were glowing.

The dress was soft, pale blue with white floral embroidery. Your bump was proudly visible, your hair curled to perfection, and your lips curved into a smile that made Gohan forget how to breathe.

You reached for his hand.

“You ready?”

He nodded, eyes shining. “You?”

“Terrified.”

“Perfect.”

Bulma pressed the button.

The machine hissed.

There was a blast of light—pink, bright, radiant—and suddenly the entire backyard was flooded with clouds of shimmering rose-colored smoke. From the sky, a pop sounded, and glitter rained down in soft bursts. A sparkly hologram appeared above the yard in cursive:

It’s a Girl! Welcome, Zoey!

The world froze.

You turned to Gohan, wide-eyed, hand over your mouth.

And he moved .

In one breathless, beautiful second, he scooped you into his arms—careful, cradling, reverent—and lifted you off the ground like you weighed nothing. You laughed, arms around his neck, and he spun you, slow and gentle, twirling in the middle of a pink glitter storm as your dress flowed around you like a fairytale.

When he stopped, he pressed his forehead to yours, eyes full of tears.

“We’re having a daughter,” he whispered.

And that’s when you started crying.

Not out of fear or confusion or even hormones—but out of sheer, blinding joy.

He held you tighter.

And for that moment—one precious, impossible moment—it felt like everything was exactly as it should be.

Chapter Text

The nursery started with a paint swatch. Just a soft pastel card from Capsule Corp’s interior design lab (because of course Bulma had one), left casually on the kitchen counter with the morning mail.

Gohan picked it up without thinking, eyes scanning the shade labeled “Starblush Sky,” and before you could even open your mouth to tease him for his sudden interest in warm-toned neutrals, he said it.

“I’m turning your room into the nursery.”

You blinked. “My room?”

“The guest room. The one you’re in.”

You frowned, setting down your water. “Then where am I supposed to sleep?”

He looked at you, already walking toward the hallway, completely unaffected. “My room.”

You followed, confused. “Gohan—”

“No.” He turned at the doorway, folding his arms over his chest, all calm certainty. “You’re not arguing with me about this.”

“But—”

“No,” he repeated, his tone soft but immovable. “You’re carrying my daughter. You’re growing an entire human inside your body. You’ve been throwing up and craving peppers dipped in ranch, and your ankles are swollen, and your back is killing you, and you still laugh at my terrible jokes.”

You stared.

He stepped closer, voice quieter now. “You deserve the good bed. The memory foam. The better view. The private bathroom. You’re not visiting, okay? You’re not temporary. This is your home, too. So no more guest room. I’m not asking.”

You opened your mouth to protest again, but the words died somewhere between your lungs and your throat.

Because how could you argue with that? With the earnest weight in his voice? With the way he made it sound so easy, so natural—like sharing space, sharing everything, was just a given now?

So instead, you whispered, “Okay.”

And he smiled like you’d handed him the stars.

From that point on, the nursery project turned into a mission.

You hadn’t even finished your toast before Bulma showed up with three design prototypes, a set of blueprints, and a capsule full of “just a few” custom furniture options from West Galaxy’s top baby artisan collective. You hadn’t even picked out a crib yet, but suddenly you were knee-deep in modular options, space-saving corner dressers, noise-cancelling starlight projectors, and an enchanted mobile that played Saiyan lullabies.

You and Gohan went everywhere.

Capsule Corp. Baby Depot. Target. Even a fancy boutique where the saleswoman made the mistake of asking Gohan if he was “just the baby daddy.” You’d never seen a man smile so politely while vibrating with the urge to correct someone with a lecture on co-parenting, emotional labor, and name bets.

And Gohan?

He bought everything.

If it was pink and fluffy, he bought it. If it was neutral and soft, he bought two. Socks that looked like strawberries? Into the cart. A onesie that said My Dad Can Bench Press Your Dad? Absolutely. A baby carrier that wrapped around his shoulders like tactical armor? He wore it for ten minutes in the store just to be sure.

“She’s gonna be spoiled,” he said, eyes bright with pride. “She’s going to have everything.”

And later—standing there in the middle of Zoey’s nursery with your growing bump, your heart ten sizes too big, and your fingers brushing against his just because you needed to—almost said it.

You could feel it rising in your throat, warm and electric and terrifying.

I love you.

You opened your mouth. Turned toward him. Saw the way he looked at a tiny dress in his hands like it was holy. Felt the flutter in your belly that wasn’t just baby anymore, but you, fully alive and breaking open.

And then—

POP.

The air cracked.

Light flashed.

And there, in the middle of the hallway, just outside the room, stood Goku, holding a box of lemon cakes like a trophy.

“Heyyyyyyy!” he shouted cheerfully. “Chi-Chi said you were craving these and I didn’t wanna wait for the oven to cool so—”

“Dad!” Gohan shrieked.

You screamed. Gohan screamed. The baby kicked.

“I LOVE YOU—” you yelled instinctively in sheer panic before clamping your hands over your mouth in pure horror.

Goku blinked. “Huh?”

“I said I… love… lemon cakes?” you tried, voice cracking like a pubescent teen. “With my whole heart. Wow. So emotional.”

Gohan was red. Visibly red. Neck to ears. Hands frozen in place as he stared at you, jaw slack, holding a very tiny sock and dress.

You avoided his eyes completely.

“I’m gonna… go… put these in the kitchen,” Goku said slowly, glancing between you like he’d just walked in on two deer confessing feelings with their antlers.

The silence that followed was glorious.

Painful.

Endless.

And when you finally dared to glance back at Gohan, he looked like someone who had just watched his entire romantic storyline glitch mid-confession.

“…Lemon cakes, huh?” he said softly.

You cleared your throat. “With… conviction.”

He smirked, almost shy. “Next time you almost say it, make sure it’s not in the same breath as my father.”

You looked away, cheeks burning. “Deal.”

Chapter Text

By the time you hit twenty-eight weeks, Zoey was officially the size of a large eggplant , though Gohan insisted on specifying Italian eggplant every time, as though it added gravitas to her size. And while the vegetable comparisons had long since lost their charm—somewhere around “grapefruit-sized” and “banana-shaped”—this one stuck with you, mostly because it coincided with the full onset of third trimester symptoms, and honestly? You were ready to throw an eggplant at anyone who mentioned “the glow.”

Because this? Was not glowing.

This was leg cramps that woke you up in the middle of the night with a scream that had Gohan bolting upright like he was under attack, hands everywhere, shouting things like, “Is it time?! Is she coming?!” while you writhed and cursed the gods of calcium deficiency. This was lower back pain that throbbed like a pulse, persistent and unforgiving, especially on days when you tried to do normal things like exist upright for more than twenty minutes. And the itching . Oh, the itching . Your skin felt tight and overstretched, like you were a drum someone had strung too tight.

Dr. Lian, ever the voice of clinical calm, told you it was normal.

Your skin was expanding. Your blood flow was shifting. Everything was working double-time to accommodate your daughter’s apartment upgrades.

But knowing it was normal didn’t stop you from dragging your nails across your bump at least six times an hour like you were trying to carve ancient runes into your skin. And Gohan, bless his heart, had noticed.

He showed up one afternoon with a small jar of balm in hand—lavender and calendula, pregnancy-safe, handmade by someone in Chi-Chi’s village—and he looked at you with such sweet, boyish pride it nearly undid you.

“I read the reviews,” he said solemnly, as though he were announcing a war strategy. “They said it works.”

And it did . Cooling and gentle and soothing in a way you hadn’t realized you needed.

It became a ritual—yet another added to your growing, intimate catalog of strange little domestic moments. Every night, you’d lie back on the bed and lift your shirt, and Gohan would warm the balm between his palms before rubbing it gently into your skin. Sometimes he’d whisper to Zoey while he did it—telling her about his day, about the weather, about how much he hoped she’d like lemon cake. And sometimes, he’d say nothing, just rub slow, careful circles across your belly, his hands reverent, his eyes full of things he still hadn’t said aloud but neither of you mentioned the moment.

The I-love-you-shaped bomb that had nearly gone off weeks earlier, smothered beneath a lemon cake emergency and the awkward coughs of a father who absolutely knew what he’d walked in on.

You didn’t bring it up. Gohan didn’t either.

Like complete and utter adults , you shoved the memory into a drawer, buried it under a pile of nursery receipts and stroller comparisons, and silently agreed to pretend it hadn’t happened.

Instead, you focused on other things—like birth plans.

Dr. Lian had gently pushed the idea during your last appointment, her tone patient but firm as she handed over a pamphlet titled “Preparing for Delivery: Options, Safety, and Sanity” in a calm, end-of-the-world voice that made you grip Gohan’s hand harder than necessary.

“You’re in your third trimester now,” she said, with the polite gravity of someone discussing taxes or the slow boil of the universe. “It’s a good time to start thinking about what kind of delivery you want. Vaginal, medicated, natural, cesarean—whatever route you’re considering, having a plan can give you a sense of control.”

You stared at her like she’d asked you to design a space shuttle and Gohan, ever the fixer, nodded enthusiastically and said, “We’ll start tonight.”

That night, you cried over a video of someone giving birth in a tub while Gohan read aloud from a birthing manual like it was a bedtime story.

Then came the antenatal classes.

Every Tuesday evening, you found yourselves in a sunlit room at the local community center, surrounded by couples in varying stages of enthusiasm and terror. Gohan took notes. You tried not to fall asleep. You both giggled in the back row when the instructor said the phrase “perineal massage” , and Gohan had to leave the room when a slideshow image showed a real placenta.

But the best part? Watching him hold a baby doll.

He cradled it like it was made of glass. Practiced changing diapers with the seriousness of a man defusing a bomb. And when the instructor asked everyone to simulate soothing techniques, Gohan rocked his plastic baby in slow, gentle motions while whispering, “It’s okay, Zoey. Daddy’s got you.”

You might have cried. You’ll never tell.

Back at home, the nursery was nearly done. The walls were soft pink and ivory, the paint made from a fancy Capsule Corp blend that guaranteed zero harmful fumes and had been personally tested by Bulma on a group of willing lab interns. The furniture was assembled, the crib sturdy and perfect, the changing table stocked and labeled. There were plush toys on the shelves, blankets folded neatly, and a small framed picture Goten had drawn with stick figures labeled “Mommy,” “Daddy,” and “Zoey,” in wobbly, multicolored crayon letters.

You’d painted it together—Gohan in sweatpants and a faded tee, you in one of his hoodies and your stylish maternity leggings, music playing low in the background, laughter and splashes of pale pink on both of your arms. It had taken all day. You’d ordered takeout and danced while waiting for the food, bump swaying, Gohan holding your hands with the utmost care and even now, days later, the scent of the paint lingered faintly in the air, clean and new and full of promise.

“Ready for our walk?” he asked one afternoon, holding out your sneakers with a smile that was just a little too smug.

You groaned, flopping back onto the couch. “Do we have to?”

“Yes,” he said cheerfully. “You, me, Zoey, and the trail. Twenty minutes, nice and slow. Doctor-approved. Good for your joints, your blood flow, and your overall mood.”

“I’m already in a mood.”

“And it’ll get better with endorphins,” he teased.

You muttered something about his endorphins and let him help you to your feet, fingers squeezing his as you balanced. Your ankles were sore, your back ached, and your daughter seemed to be doing gymnastics inside your body—but you went.

And when he slid his arm around your waist, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple before starting down the path beside you, you leaned into him without hesitation because this— this —was home now. Even if you hadn’t said it. Even if you were both still pretending you didn’t want to scream it into the sky.

Chapter Text

Thirty weeks pregnant. The bump had gone from soft and sweet and Instagrammably cute to a full-blown, unignorable force of nature —round, heavy, ever-present. You couldn’t see your feet anymore. Hell, you couldn’t see anything below your belly button without an intense lean-forward maneuver and a prayer. Zoey, sweet precious eggplant-turned-butternut-squash, had officially begun her endgame preparations, pressing up against your ribs like she was trying to do renovations from the inside , while your bladder now held less liquid than a thimble and had all the patience of a ticking time bomb.

And yet—bless him—Gohan was still managing to make it feel like it was magic. He had routines now. Lists. Timestamps. You caught him once whispering affirmations to your belly while rubbing in the balm, telling Zoey she was strong and safe and so loved she didn’t even know it yet. You pretended to be asleep, but it made you cry anyway.

You cried a lot these days. A lot . Commercials. Cravings denied. When your leggings shrunk in the dryer. When they didn’t shrink but you still couldn’t get them up.

Which brought you to this morning. It started normal. A good morning. Sunlight, the smell of tea, Gohan humming to himself in the kitchen. You were in your room, trying to get dressed, trying to be independent for once. You’d stepped into the leggings just fine—progress!—but getting them up over your now fully Earth-dominating bump? Impossible. You’d tugged, twisted, yanked, bent, and then— stuck .

Like a cartoon character frozen mid-scene and that’s when you lost it .

“GOHAAAAAAN!”

His footsteps were immediate, fast, his voice panicked and too close to hero-mode. “What?! What’s wrong?! Are you okay?! Did your water break?! Did Zoey kick your spleen?!”

The door burst open and there he was—bedhead messy, sleep shirt tight across his chest, eyes wild and shirt halfway lifted like he thought he might need to fight someone . A literal vision of sexy, chaotic preparedness.

And you? You were crying.

“I’m stuck ,” you wailed, gesturing wildly to your half-on leggings. “I can’t get them up, and I can’t get them down, and I’m going to live like this forever like some sad sausage—”

He blinked. Then—he laughed. Not in a mocking way. Not even really at you. But that soft, exasperated kind of laugh that said he loved you more than he had words for, and this was just another chapter in your shared book of madness.

“Oh, babe,” he murmured, already crossing the room. “C’mere.”

You sniffled as he gently turned you around, crouched behind you, and started to ease the fabric over your hips with such care it made you want to sob harder.

“I’m never wearing pants again,” you declared.

“That’s valid,” he said, kissing your lower back. “I support your journey.”

The mood swings were… intense.

You went from joyfully dancing in the kitchen to sobbing over the grocery bill within the same fifteen-minute window. Gohan never flinched. He just hugged you. Rubbed your back. Made you chamomile tea and reminded you how hard your body was working and how lucky he was that you trusted him enough to feel everything around him.

And the nights? You woke up constantly . Needing to pee. Needing to roll over. Needing to not feel like a beached manatee in the Sahara. Each time, Gohan helped you.

Without complaint.

Even when you hissed at him because your hips hurt or grunted in frustration because the pillow mountain you’d constructed to sleep with had betrayed you. He was there. Sleepy, disheveled, barefoot, and sweet. Every. Single. Time.

It was during your 30-week checkup that Dr. Lian brought up the big topic.

“Have you two decided where you want to give birth?” she asked casually, scanning your vitals. “Hospital? Birthing center? Any thoughts on a home birth?”

You and Gohan looked at each other.

You’d talked about it. Briefly. The idea of being in a sterile, chaotic hospital surrounded by strangers had felt… cold. Distant. Zoey was coming into your life. Your home. The idea of delivering her in your own space, with Gohan beside you, in a calm and safe environment? That felt right .

“We want to do a home water birth,” Gohan said, voice steady.

Dr. Lian nodded slowly. “You’re a great candidate for it. Your pregnancy’s been healthy and with support in place, I have no concerns. I’ll send you some recommended equipment lists and midwives I trust to assist if you want backup beyond me.”

You squeezed Gohan’s hand.

Later that night, you ordered the birthing pool online. It was massive. Inflatable. Ridiculous. You laughed so hard you had to pee again mid-scroll, and Gohan just sighed and helped you up for the seventh time that evening.

“Get used to this,” you told him dramatically. “You’re my pee doula now.”

He smirked. “I accept this title with pride.”

The third trimester was hard but it was also beautiful. You and Gohan were more than co-parents now, more than roommates fumbling toward a shared goal. You were a unit . A weird, hormonal, sore, sleep-deprived unit—but one bound together by something bigger than either of you had expected.

Love? Maybe. Not said. Not admitted but present. In every balm-rubbed belly. Every held hand. Every laughter-through-tears meltdown on the floor of your shared life.

And Zoey? She felt it all and she kicked. Like a queen.

Chapter Text

The day you met the midwife, everything clicked into place.

It was one of those quiet mornings where the air felt softer somehow, like even the sun knew something big was about to unfold. Gohan had insisted on making you breakfast—a feat that resulted in scrambled toast, because he’d somehow forgotten that butter burns if left in a pan alone —and now the two of you were sitting side by side on the couch, Zoey bouncing inside your belly like she was hyped for her big meeting.

The doorbell rang, and Gohan jumped like he’d just been drafted into war. “She’s here,” he said, bolting upright and nearly tripping over a stack of clean burp cloths.

You stared at him. “You’d think you were about to meet God.”

He looked down at you, wide-eyed and already sweating. “She might as well be. She’s helping you give birth. That’s… that’s sacred.”

You laughed softly, patting the couch beside you, and then sat up straighter as the front door opened.

Her name was Mei Tanaka—midwife, water birth specialist, calm sorceress in sneakers. She stepped into the apartment with a leather bag and the energy of someone who had seen everything and could probably deliver a baby on a rollercoaster if she had to. Her voice was warm and clear, her eyes sharp but kind, and when she shook your hand and then Gohan’s, she gave him a look like she knew he was taking everything way too seriously—and loved him for it.

“Dr. Lian tells me this is your first,” Mei said, settling into the armchair like it had been built for her. “And that you’re planning a water birth at home?”

You nodded, Gohan hovering beside you like your personal doula bodyguard.

“I’ve read three books,” he announced, like he was presenting evidence in court. “And we bought the birthing pool already.”

Mei blinked. “You… already bought the pool?”

Gohan sat up straighter. “Deluxe inflatable. Built-in seat. Heat-retention lining. Cupholder.”

She smiled, slow and wide. “I love when people do their homework.”

And just like that, the tension broke.

Mei walked you both through everything . The setup. The timeline. When to call. What contractions would feel like. What the early signs might be. How to tell the difference between Braxton Hicks and the real deal. What Gohan’s role would be (hint: everything except pushing). What could go wrong, and what safety nets were in place if anything did. What the backup plans were. Who to call. What the lighting should be like. Music options. Essential oils that help with focus. How warm the water should be. Where to put the damn pool.

And she answered every question.

Even the ridiculous ones.

“So if her water breaks in the hallway—”

“What if the baby comes out really fast?”

“Is it okay if she screams at me?”

“Can I scream back?”

“Are babies slippery?”

She smiled through it all. Calmed every fear. Validated every emotional outburst. And by the end of the meeting, you were leaning into Gohan’s side, his arm wrapped protectively around your shoulders, and you felt something you hadn’t even realized you were missing.

Peace.

This was going to happen. And it was going to happen here . At home. In the room where you’d built this life together. Surrounded by warmth, intention, and someone who had already proven she’d hold your hand through the fire.

After Mei left, something in you switched .

Nesting mode. Full throttle.

You looked at Gohan, eyes alight with a kind of chaotic determination that should have scared him—and instead, he mirrored it.

“We need to reorganize the dresser,” you said.

“Already done,” he replied. “But I’ll do it again.”

“I think we should wash her onesies one more time.”

“We should steam them.”

“We need to test the sound machine.”

“We need a backup power supply in case of a blackout.”

“I want to move the bassinet again . The feng shui is off.”

“Agreed. Also, I found a mobile that projects constellations . Zoey’s going to learn the stars before she learns her own name.”

You became twin tornadoes of domestic obsession. He alphabetized the baby books. You folded and refolded burp cloths. You took turns lining up bottles on the drying rack just to make sure you liked the aesthetic of it.

One morning, he found you crying in front of the changing table.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asked, kneeling beside you.

You sniffled. “What if I mess up the wipes drawer ?”

Gohan blinked. “Like… placement-wise?”

“I don’t know. It just hit me.”

He kissed your forehead, smiling into your hair. “I’ll triple-check the drawer. But I promise—Zoey’s not going to care where the wipes go. She’s just going to care that you’re there.”

You melted, again. Because that’s what you did now. Cried over drawers and declarations.

Nights were slower. Softer. You’d curl into his side, his hand on your bump, both of you watching Zoey roll and nudge beneath your skin like she was reminding you she was there. Always listening. Always ready.

Sometimes he’d talk to her. Sometimes he’d talk to you , whispering words you pretended to sleep through, your eyes closed, your heart wide open.

“She’s going to love you,” he’d say. “Just like I—”

But then he’d stop.

Always at the same place.

Always pulling the words back.

And you let him. Because one day—one day soon—you’d both stop running from the truth but for now, you rearranged the diaper caddy again. Together and it was enough.

Chapter Text

Thirty-five weeks. By now, Zoey wasn’t just a bump—she was a presence . A force. A tiny empress demanding constant bathroom breaks, back rubs, and nightly negotiations over sleeping positions. Your belly was heavy and beautifully round, your ankles a little puffy, your hips constantly aching, and your lower back carrying the weight of not just a baby, but a home birth plan, a pile of anxiety, and the looming realization that sometime very soon , your daughter would arrive in this world—and everything would change.

Which is how you ended up back in Target.

Again .

It was supposed to be a quick trip—just towels, snacks, and those last few postpartum things Dr. Lian had suggested during your last check-in. You had a list. A clear plan. You’d even agreed to split up: Gohan would grab some of the bigger items (like the industrial pack of absorbent pads and the baby bath you suddenly realized you didn’t have), and you’d tackle the snack aisle like a hormonal tornado.

Easy. Efficient.

Until it wasn’t.

You were examining a wall of organic trail mixes when you saw it—out of the corner of your eye— him .

Gohan.

Pushing the cart like a damn magazine ad, navy blue Henley hugging his torso, sleeves pushed up just enough to show off his forearms, dark hair tousled in that perfectly lazy way that made women take a second look whether they meant to or not.

He was walking slowly toward you with a stroller tucked under one arm and a car seat balanced like it weighed nothing in the other. His face was relaxed, glowing with that open, earnest joy he wore whenever he was thinking about Zoey, and the sight alone made your heart clench.

Until she appeared.

Mid-twenties. Cute. Confident. Wearing a tight crop top and holding a reusable coffee cup like it was an accessory to her flirting. She spotted him, spotted the car seat, and bee-lined .

You didn’t hear the words at first. Just saw the way she tilted her head. The way she smiled. The way her fingers brushed her hair back like she was playing a part she’d rehearsed a hundred times before.

And Gohan, poor oblivious soul, smiled back—polite, kind, clueless.

Something hot flared in your chest. Not just jealousy. Something more .

Protectiveness. Possessiveness. That primal, full-body urge to mark your territory even though you hadn’t even kissed him yet, hadn’t told him all the things bubbling in your heart, hadn’t—

You were already moving before you could think.

You stormed down the aisle, belly leading the charge, pushing past a display of protein bars and nearly knocking over a basket of reduced-price cookies. Gohan looked up just in time to see you approach—eyes widening slightly, like he could feel the mood radiating off you.

The girl turned toward you as you stopped beside him, smiling that friendly smile women gave other women when they were still pretending not to be threatened.

And then, in a voice much calmer than the storm inside you, you said:

“ Hey, babe. ”

Gohan blinked.

The girl’s smile faltered.

You stepped in closer, curling your arm around his and resting your hand—casual, very intentional—on his chest. “Did you find the stroller?”

“Uh,” he stammered, eyes wide, face blooming with crimson, “y-yeah, this one folds with one hand and has a snack tray and—” he swallowed, voice an octave higher than usual, “ babe .”

The girl’s eyes flicked between you, then down to your very visible bump.

“Oh my god,” she said, backing up a step. “I’m so sorry . I didn’t realize you were—together. I just saw the car seat and thought—” she laughed awkwardly, cheeks flushing, “—I figured you were a single dad. There’s no ring so—”

You stiffened, mouth twitching. “That’s a stupid assumption.”

She winced. “Right. Sorry. Have a great day.”

She turned and scurried off, disappearing around the corner with what little pride she had left.

And then—

You realized what you’d said.

You realized exactly what you’d just said.

No ring.

You, flushed and panting, hands still on Gohan’s chest, heard yourself whisper it again, quieter this time.

“That’s a stupid assumption…”

And then the full weight of it crashed into you.

You froze. Looked up at him.

His expression had shifted—still pink, still wide-eyed—but now there was something else behind it. Something deeper. Something so open it nearly knocked the wind out of you.

You opened your mouth. “I didn’t mean— I mean, I didn’t mean to— I was just mad and—”

But before you could finish, Gohan leaned in.

And kissed you, you literally hadn’t even noticed when he put the stuff down.

Not hesitantly. Not softly.

But fully .

Mouth on yours in the middle of the Target snack aisle like he’d been waiting for permission that never came, and now he was done waiting. His hands cradled your face so gently it made you ache, his lips brushing against yours like a promise, like a confession, like a dam breaking open .

You kissed him back. Without hesitation. Without thinking.

Your arms slid around him. His thumb stroked your cheek. You felt the baby kick once—sharp and insistent like she approved—and still, Gohan didn’t pull away.

When he finally did, it was slow. Like he didn’t want to stop. Like he’d finally, finally exhaled something he’d been holding for too long.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for months ,” he whispered, forehead resting against yours.

You couldn’t breathe.

“I wanted to do it the day you told me you were pregnant,” he added, voice thick with emotion. “But I didn’t want to scare you. Or ruin things. Or make it harder.”

You blinked at him, tears already stinging. “That didn’t make it harder.”

He smiled. “No?”

You shook your head. “That made it real .”

You stood there for another long moment, wrapped up in each other, surrounded by half-stocked shelves and too many feelings, while Zoey rolled inside you like she knew everything had just changed.

And in that moment, with cart wheels squeaking in the distance and an unattended baby bottle display blinking beside you, Gohan kissed you again.

Because he could.

Because it was time .

Chapter Text

Thirty-six weeks. The end was near. You could feel it in your body—tight and stretched and ready, your belly heavy and low like the moon itself had sunk into your pelvis and decided to stay there. Zoey was no longer shy; her kicks were bold now, visible through fabric, little feet pressing against your ribs with the attitude of a future heartbreaker.

The days were slower, your ankles were puffier, and your brain was a soup of hormones and last-minute to-do lists. But beneath all the chaos? A soft, humming joy.

And today?

Today was the baby shower .

Or, more accurately, the capsule-powered, Bulma-funded, Saiyan-attended event of the century.

You had tried— tried —to keep it small. A backyard gathering. Some friends. A cake. But the second Bulma got involved, it escalated like a runaway hovercraft.

The Capsule Corp garden had been transformed into a pastel wonderland—draped fabric, floating orbs, customized “Team Zoey” banners strung between glowing light posts. There were live musicians. A chocolate fondue station. Goten wore a sash that said “Uncle in Training,” and Goku kept trying to eat the centerpiece, which was, in fact, a diaper cake.

And you?

You looked breathtaking .

You wore a soft, fitted sage green gown that draped over your bump like it had been tailored by angels. The color made your skin glow, your hair was curled to perfection, and your silver necklace—Zoey’s first initial already around your neck—rested right over your heart. Everyone said you were radiant, and for once? You felt it. Glowing not just with pregnancy, but with happiness.

Gohan looked at you like you were the sun.

He couldn’t stop touching you—hand at the small of your back, fingers brushing your bump as you moved from gift tables to seating areas. And when you laughed? Gods. He just stared.

It was chaos. Loud and joyful and insane . But when you caught his gaze across the yard—his eyes full of everything he hadn’t yet said—you felt like the only two people in the world.

Later, much later, it was just the two of you again.

The apartment was dim and quiet, lit only by a low lamp in the corner. Your shoes were off, your dress draped over a chair, and you were curled up on the couch in one of Gohan’s old hoodies and a pair of leggings that didn’t hurt to breathe in. Your bump sat proudly between you and the coffee table, where opened boxes, pastel tissue paper, and mountains of baby gifts were slowly being sorted.

“You know we’re going to need a second closet, right?” you said, holding up a ruffled yellow dress no human could resist.

Gohan, still barefoot, still in his button-down with the sleeves rolled up, nodded solemnly. “Or build a second house.”

You both laughed.

He leaned in, pulled a stuffed pink dinosaur from the pile, and made it wave at you. “Hi, I’m Zoey’s new best friend and I’m already judging you.”

You snorted. “That’s spot-on. You’re going to be such a girl dad.”

“I’m terrified and honored.”

You shifted closer, resting your chin on his shoulder. “Today was perfect.”

He turned his head, just enough to brush his cheek against yours. “You were perfect.”

There was a moment there—long and quiet—where the air felt thick with meaning. You could hear your heart, feel hers. You were pressed together, surrounded by all the evidence of the life you’d built, and still, there were things hanging in the air, unsaid.

“I think I died,” you whispered.

Gohan blinked. “What?”

“At Target. That day. When you kissed me.”

He chuckled, his voice low. “Oh. Yeah. Same.”

You looked up at him. “I was dying to do it for weeks. ”

“ Weeks? Try months. ”

You both laughed, soft and breathless.

Then silence again. But not awkward. Not strained.

Just full .

And then—your voice, quieter this time.

“I kept thinking I’d ruin everything. If I said it. If I touched it.”

“I was afraid of that too.”

“But we didn’t.”

“No,” he murmured, brushing your hair back, eyes impossibly tender. “We made it better.”

You smiled, eyes shining. “Yeah. We did.”

And he kissed you again—slow, unhurried, the kind of kiss that says we made it this far and I’d do it all again . You melted into him, fingers curled in the soft fabric at his chest, your bump nestled between you like a heartbeat.

You fell asleep on the couch that night, heads leaned together, wrapped in a blanket and the quiet kind of love that needs no announcement and Zoey kicked once, gently, like she knew she’d chosen well.

The first breath you took that morning was warm and honeyed, the air thick with the scent of something sweet and comforting—maple syrup and browned butter—and the distant crackle of something frying in oil. Your limbs ached in that soft, satisfied way, your thighs still humming with the ghost of last night’s need and the weight of Gohan’s hands that had gripped you, held you, worshipped you in the dark.

He had taken you slow.

Un-rushed and reverent, with his mouth at your neck and one trembling hand cradling your belly like a holy thing, he made love to you like you were a Goddess and he a simple mortal made to worship you.

And now?

The bed was empty beside you, the blankets warm but folded back, sunlight spilling across the sheets in long golden ribbons. You could hear the soft murmur of the TV playing low in the living room and the quiet rhythm of someone moving through the kitchen—clinks of metal, the hiss of a pan, the gentle scrape of a spatula.

You shuffled out of bed slowly, legs sore, belly heavy, your oversized sweatshirt— his sweatshirt—falling just beneath the curve of your bump as you padded barefoot down the hallway, yawning around a sleepy smile.

What you found made your heart squeeze.

Gohan stood at the stove, back to you, hair still tousled from sleep, wearing only a pair of low-slung gray sweatpants and the bare skin of his muscled back. The early light from the window poured in, catching along his shoulders, the ridges of his spine, the soft indent of his waist. He was humming something under his breath—off-key and sweet—as he flipped a pancake onto a growing stack, then moved to pour steaming water into two ceramic mugs on the counter.

You caught the smell of the coffee and smiled wider.

“Still no eggs?” you asked softly, voice hoarse from sleep.

He turned, startled, and grinned when he saw you. “Gods, no,” he said immediately, holding up both hands like a man on trial. “The trauma is real. ”

You laughed and walked over, sliding your arms around his middle from behind, pressing your cheek to his back. He leaned into your touch instinctively, one hand coming down to cover yours as he kissed your wrist gently.

“You slept okay?” he asked, voice low and laced with affection.

You nodded against him. “After the third pee break? Yeah.”

“I was tempted to just carry the toilet to the bedroom,” he joked, earning a light swat from you. “Okay, okay—but admit it, you loved that back massage I gave you at 3 a.m.”

“I did,” you murmured, stepping around him slowly, belly-first, until you were face to face. “And the other thing.”

His ears turned bright red.

He cleared his throat and turned back to the stove. “Well, I figured you earned pancakes. Hash browns are almost done, and I brewed you some of that weird decaf cinnamon blend you liked last time.”

You stood there, watching him for a long moment—this man, this soft , ridiculously thoughtful, powerful man—cooking for you like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like your body growing his daughter inside it was not a miracle, but a quiet truth he honored in everything he did.

Your throat went tight.

“I love you,” you said suddenly, breathlessly, the words slipping out like a secret you’d been holding between your ribs for too long.

Gohan froze.

And then he turned—pancake forgotten, coffee abandoned, heat rising in his cheeks and eyes wide with something that could only be described as awe .

“You do?” he whispered, like he almost couldn’t believe it.

You nodded, already tearing up. “I do.”

He crossed the space between you in three long steps, cupped your face in both hands like it was precious, kissed your forehead, your nose, your lips—soft and full and trembling.

“I love you too,” he said into your skin. “So much it hurts.”

Chapter Text

It was official—Gohan had entered what could only be described as Saiyan-grade nesting mode and no one, not even the very pregnant woman waddling through the apartment like a hormonal penguin, was immune from his plans.

You weren’t sure when the idea hit him but it must’ve been around 4 a.m. when he’d had one of his quiet, contemplative moments while holding your belly, whispering to Zoey about how close they were to meeting each other.

The next morning, you’d barely made it to the kitchen to pee before he stopped you in your path—with a brand-new vlogging camera, a ring light, a mini boom mic and enough excitement to rival a Capsule Corp press conference.

“I’ve been thinking,” he began, sheepish and adorably excited, dark eyes still heavy from sleep but glowing with purpose as he gently herded you into a chair. “What if we document it all? Everything. The last stretch. For Zoey. So when she’s older, she’ll know how much we couldn’t wait for her.”

You blinked, puffy-eyed and still very much in that “I just woke up and can’t feel my toes” headspace. “…You bought a mic?”

“I bought three,” he admitted, grinning. “In case the first two fail and I made a checklist but I can update it based on your lighting preferences.”

You stared at him. He stared back—eager, hopeful, already holding the tripod like it was a Dragon Radar.

“You’re going to want to remember all of this… I want her to see how much we loved her before we even met her.”

After that, you couldn’t say no. Not when he looked at you like that and thus began Gohan’s cinematic pregnancy project.

By noon, you had been “placed” in six different corners of the apartment to test lighting. You’d sat by the window (bad glare), against the nursery wall (too flat), and on the living room floor (you nearly got stuck and had to beg for his help getting up). Gohan, in full director mode, narrated each scene with wide-eyed excitement, even doing multiple takes of a simple “Zoey update” that had you giggling mid-recording.

“Okay, in this shot,” he’d said, adjusting the ring light with the care of someone defusing a bomb, “can you say something sweet? Like… how she kicked when I kissed your stomach last night?”

You tilted your head, one hand lazily resting on your bump. “You mean when she tried to dropkick your face because you sneezed too loud?”

“She’s just passionate,” he said with a smirk, leaning down to kiss the bump again as if apologizing directly to her and then she kicked.

Hard. Right at his nose. You both burst out laughing so hard the camera shook on the tripod.

Later, with the apartment dimmed to soft lamp light and your body aching from all the waddling, you found yourselves tangled in the sheets—limbs wrapped around each other, heat building in a slow, teasing rhythm that had become so familiar and so intimate it could only belong to him.

He’d touched you like he always did now—reverent, slow, worshipful. His large hand resting over your belly as he kissed every part of you that didn’t feel like it belonged to you anymore. The stretch marks. The swollen ankles. The ache in your lower back. He kissed them all like they were holy, like they were marks of something sacred, not burdens.

When he entered you, careful, slow, one strong hand cradling the back of your neck, the other bracing himself to keep from pressing too much weight on your bump—it felt like the world had gone quiet. No cameras. No lights. Just you, Gohan and the little life between you, held within love and sweat and whispered promises in the dark.

Afterward, your skin still warm and your fingers curled over his chest, you lay together in silence, breaths slowing, hearts steady, and eyes tracing the ceiling as though the answers to every terrifying, wonderful question were written in the paint.

“I’m scared,” you whispered finally, your voice barely more than a breath.

Gohan turned to you slowly, brushing his fingertips down your cheek, his brows pulled together. “Of what, sweetheart?”

“Of everything. Of labor. Of pushing a watermelon out of a place a watermelon does not belong. Of not knowing what I’m doing. Of being too tired. Of something going wrong. Of…of not being ready. Even though I’ve wanted her so bad, I—”

“Hey.” He kissed your forehead. Then your nose. Then your lips. “You don’t have to be ready. We just… show up. Together. You and me. And we love her. That’s what we do.”

You swallowed, eyes burning. “You’re not scared?”

His expression softened. “Terrified.”

You laughed, breath hitching with emotion, and he kissed the tears right off your cheeks. “But I’m also the luckiest man in the world,” he added, “because I get to do this with you. Watermelon baby and all.”

“Gohan…”

“And if you want me to coach-breathe with you? I’ll do it. If you want me to be your midwife’s assistant? I’ll wear a damn name tag. If you want me to hold your hand while you scream every profanity in the book—”

“You’ll still love me?”

He smiled, thumb stroking along your cheekbone. “I’ll love you even more and hell I scream along with you as well.”

You pressed your forehead to his, giggling. “She’s gonna love you.”

“She already does,” he whispered, kissing your lips one more time. “She kicks every time I talk.”

That night, before sleep could pull you under, Gohan whispered to the camera resting on the shelf:

“For you, Zoey,” he said softly, glancing down at you curled beside him. “The countdown is almost over and we are so damn ready for you.”

Even if neither of you totally were but maybe… that was the whole point.

Chapter Text

Everything was ready.

The nursery glowed with the softest, warmest lights Gohan had painstakingly installed himself — dimmable string bulbs that twinkled like stars and gave the room a golden hush that made everything feel sacred. The walls were soft lavender and sage, the shelves neatly stacked with little cotton onesies and folded muslin blankets that had been washed and rewashed to absurd softness. The stroller was parked in the corner like it was standing guard, the camera tripod leaned against the rocking chair waiting to be set up, and the birthing pool — inflated and empty — stood quietly in the middle of the living room, as if the whole house was holding its breath.

It was all there. Every bottle sterilized, every towel stacked, every snack bagged and labeled. There was even a mini fridge tucked in the corner full of coconut water and ice packs. Gohan had labeled them. In color-coded Sharpie.

Now, at thirty-nine weeks pregnant, with your lower back aching and your stretch marks glistening with balm under your oversized sleep shirt, the moment had finally arrived — in the form of a very unglamorous, slightly terrifying, mucus plug slowly sliding out of your body like a grotesque little red flag that whispered: “Showtime.”

Gohan had taken the news in stride — which is to say, he panicked, slipped on a sock and nearly passed out before pulling it together and diving into the checklist he’d memorized. He even had clipboards. Plural.

You were exhausted from all the waddling — your feet were puffed and sore and your thighs had officially stopped recognizing each other as separate entities. You didn’t walk anymore. You waddled. Like a penguin with a secret and a deadline.

That night, after brushing your teeth (with Gohan crouched next to you rubbing your ankles because they were “so unfairly swollen it should be a crime”, you both crawled into bed, limbs tangling in muscle memory, the weight of what was about to come settling between you like a third presence neither of you could name yet.

And then it happened.

A sharp, low tug in your belly — a cramp, dull but pointed, a pinch of pressure just enough to jolt you awake in the dark.

“Babe,” you whispered, placing your hand over your stomach and turning to him, shaking him gently. “Gohan! I think it’s starting.”

His eyes snapped open so fast you almost laughed — wide and white, pupils dilated, like he’d just been told Frieza was back.

“What? What?! Is it happening? Is she coming? Is the mucus plug a lie?!” he yelped, sitting straight up, hair wild, shirtless and blinking like he’d been dropped into a war zone.

You nodded calmly — maybe too calmly. “I think this is it.”

Then just like that — Dad Mode: Activated.

In less than a minute, he was out of bed, phone in hand, pacing shirtless in pajama pants, calling Dr. Lian with his voice one octave higher than usual. The conversation was brief — she told him to keep you resting, have you drink fluids, time the contractions, and only call again once they were five minutes apart, lasted over a minute, and stayed consistent for at least an hour.

After he hung up, you got another contraction — like a strong period cramp, irritating but familiar. You grinned and stretched.

“This is gonna be a piece of cake,” you announced smugly.

Gohan narrowed his eyes.

“Babe,” he said slowly, “don’t say that. You just jinxed it.”

You waved him off. “It’s a cramp. I’ve had worse watching Grey’s Anatomy.”

The next twelve hours proved you so wrong it was comical.

By dawn, you were growling like a feral cat every ten minutes and throwing Gohan dirty looks every time he opened his mouth. He had taken the camera out, placed it lovingly on the tripod, and started filming a documentary like this was a nature special on Discovery Channel.

He had title cards. He had angles. He had you sitting in different parts of the apartment checking the lighting while you groaned and hissed like an overstuffed tea kettle.

“This is for Zoey,” he whispered behind the camera, filming you waddling dramatically across the kitchen in your robe. “She needs to know her mom was a champion.”

“She’s gonna know her mom almost smothered her dad with a pillow if he doesn’t put that camera down,” you snapped through gritted teeth during one particularly bad contraction but he only grinned. “Do it. That’d be a killer final shot.”

The contractions kept coming — stronger, closer, sharper — and with each one, Gohan was there, a constant presence, breathing with you, rubbing your back, timing everything on the app like his life depended on it. He made you drink water every twenty minutes, fed you crackers, scratched your back when you couldn’t reach, and even gently wiped your forehead when you got sweaty.

And yet…

“If you tell me to breathe one more time,” you hissed mid-contraction, “I will hit you so hard your ancestors will feel it.”

There was a beat of silence.Then Gohan snorted. “You’re so sexy when you’re feral.”

You burst out laughing and immediately groaned because, oh gods, laughing made the contraction worse. He kissed your cheek and whispered, “You can say whatever you want. I’d do the same in your shoes.”

By nightfall, the contractions had lined up perfectly — five minutes apart, lasting a minute, consistent for over an hour. You were gripping the arm of the couch like it owed you money, and Gohan was dialing with one hand and pouring water into the birthing pool with the other, moving like he’d trained for this.

You watched him — shirt rolled up, sweat glistening at his temples, voice calm as he gave the update to Dr. Lian and the midwife. He was everything you needed. Strong, gentle, reassuring.

“I love you,” you whispered, barely above the hum of the water filling the tub.

He turned, his eyes soft and gleaming. “I love you too. We got this, baby.”

You nodded, your hand resting over the peak of your belly, Zoey dancing inside like she knew she was almost here. Every breath was heavy with anticipation, your body trembling with a mix of fear and excitement. This was it. The moment the whole world changed.

It was chaos and it was beautiful but was just only the beginning.

Chapter Text

It was happening. It was finally happening.

The birthing pool in the living room was full, the water warm and shimmering in the soft golden light Gohan had spent hours perfecting. Everything around you was blurred now, like the whole world had gone quiet — like the universe had leaned in, holding its breath, waiting with bated silence as time bent around this moment.

You were wearing nothing but your black cotton sports bra, your hands trembling slightly as you stepped into the water one foot at a time, groaning softly as the heat wrapped around your tired, laboring body like a balm and of course — of course — that’s when the door flew open.

Dr. Lian and the midwife entered, both in scrubs and calm smiles like seasoned warriors ready for battle. Their energy didn’t disrupt the moment; if anything, they grounded it. The midwife knelt beside the pool, brushing her gloved hands together. “Let’s do a quick check, sweetheart.”

You let her examine you, leaning against the rim of the pool, wincing through another contraction as she worked.

“Eight centimeters,” she said with a grin. “You’re almost there. You’re doing amazing.”

Gohan, standing beside you, looking completely overwhelmed but trying very hard not to show it, breathed out a shaky laugh. “Eight? That’s… that’s like — wait, how many are there again?”

“Ten,” Dr. Lian answered sweetly, already sanitizing tools. “You’re almost at the top of the mountain.”

Without missing a beat, Gohan turned to you. “Can I… get in with you?”

You blinked at him, face flushed, body aching and gave him a look that all but screamed: what kind of question is that?You didn’t need to say a word. He took off his shirt in one swift motion, stepping in with care, his arms immediately wrapping around you from behind, hands resting on your belly like he was already protecting her.

His warmth, the water, the way his fingers rubbed slow, deep circles into your lower back — it all worked together to soothe the worst of the contractions. You leaned against his chest, eyes fluttering shut in the brief moments between them, breathing in the faint scent of his skin and shampoo and baby soap from the prep bags. The air felt humid and sacred, the dim glow of the fairy lights catching in the water, dancing across your skin.

An hour passed — or maybe a lifetime — and then something shifted. A pressure deeper than before, primal and urgent. Your whole body screamed to move, to bear down, to push.

“I think… I think my body wants me to push,” you whispered, eyes wide with wonder and terror all at once.

Dr. Lian didn’t miss a beat. “Perfect. Listen to your instincts. When your body says go — go.”

And so you did.

You grabbed onto Gohan like he was your anchor in a storm, your hands clutching his like they were lifelines. Every push was monumental, an earthquake inside your bones and you could feel your body shifting, opening, stretching beyond comprehension. He whispered encouragements between contractions, his mouth close to your ear, his voice cracking even as he tried to stay strong.

“You’re doing so good, baby. I’ve never been more proud of anyone in my life. You’ve got this. Just a little more. She’s almost here.”

There was one particular push where your entire soul felt like it might lift from your body, where a searing, burning pain bloomed low and wide — the infamous ring of fire. You whimpered through gritted teeth, digging your nails into his forearm as if trying to crawl into his skin and escape.

“She’s crowning!” Dr. Lian said, her voice rising with excitement. “I see her head!”

You gasped — Gohan gasped — and both of you started crying at once. Your vision blurred with tears as you pushed harder, muscles trembling from the effort, screaming out the pain as Gohan — like the idiot brave man he was — screamed with you.

He would deny it later. Swear it didn’t happen but it was all on camera — the whole thing caught in crystal clarity on the tripod, including the moment when he howled your name like you were going to war together and then — it happened.

With one final, guttural, soul-wrenching push, she slid into the water and without hesitation, without instruction, Gohan’s hands moved instinctively. He caught her — tiny, slippery, perfect — with all the gentleness of a man who knew he was holding the entire galaxy in his palms.

Zoey.

She was covered in blood and amniotic fluid, crying out with lungs that had just tasted air for the first time, letting the entire world know she had arrived. Gohan cradled her like she was made of starlight, lifting her to your chest with shaking hands and reverent awe.

That was the moment when you both broke. Tears streamed down your cheeks as you looked at her — squirming, sticky, utterly alive — your hands cupping the back of her tiny head as she settled on your skin. She was warm. She was real and she was yours.

Gohan sobbed into your shoulder, pressing kisses to your temple, your jaw, Zoey’s damp hair, repeating over and over, “She’s perfect, she’s perfect, she’s perfect…”

The room was quiet, save for her cries and the soft sounds of the midwife gently checking vitals and prepping supplies and then, because the universe is apparently run by comedians—

“YO!”

You and Gohan both screamed — no, screeched — as Goku instant transmissioned into the living room, barefoot, grinning, and very much unaware that he had just popped into the most sacred moment of your entire lives.

“Ohhh!” he exclaimed, eyes widening at the sight. “Sorry! I felt this huge power spike and thought something was wrong but—”

He stopped mid-sentence, his face shifting as he took in the scene: the water, the midwife, the blood, you with Zoey on your chest, and Gohan in the pool beside you, holding you both like he was never going to let go.

“…Is that… is that my granddaughter?!”

Gohan, in a daze, could only nod as Zoey wailed softly against your chest.

Goku clapped both hands over his mouth and squealed like a child. “Chi-Chi is gonna lose her mind—be right back!”

Just like that, he vanished.

The silence that followed lasted about three seconds before all of you — you, Gohan, Dr. Lian and the midwife— burst into laughter, yours breathless, Gohan’s still wet with tears, Zoey’s cries mingling like some absurd choir.

You looked down at her, at her scrunched-up little face and wrinkled fists and shock of damp dark hair, and whispered, “Hi, baby girl. Welcome to the world.”

Gohan kissed your shoulder, his voice a low, reverent whisper.

“She’s the most precious thing in the entire universe.”

Both of you somehow knew nothing was ever going to be the same again.

Chapter Text

Twenty-four hours.

It had been twenty-four hours since the world changed, since the screaming and water and tears and joy, since the first breath of the tiny girl who now ruled over your lives like a benevolent but iron-fisted empress.

In that small stretch of time, barely a blink in the grand scale of the universe, Zoey Son had already established herself as the center of all gravity, a pint-sized celestial being who cried only when she felt like it, pooped on divine timing, and, when she latched for the very first time — like she had done it in another life — looked up at you with wide, ancient eyes that said, I got this, Mom and oh, did she.

The house was no longer a house. It was a shrine, to her.

Diapers, wipes, swaddles, creams, tiny mittens, impossibly small onesies, three different pacifiers she promptly rejected and a warm baby blanket that Gohan swore smelled like heaven. It was a miracle you hadn’t slipped on one of the receiving blankets that had been lovingly, obsessively folded and then immediately discarded when Goku and Chi-Chi arrived less than an hour after her birth because of course they did.

Chi-Chi, without preamble, had taken over like the general she was. “Go rest,” she barked lovingly, ushering you to the couch like a queen being carried on a silk chaise. “I’ve got my granddaughter.”

And honestly? You hadn’t had the energy to argue. Wrapped in a clean robe, still blissfully high off hormones and joy and exhaustion, you laid back as Chi-Chi gently lifted Zoey for her first bath, Goku crouched beside the tub with an intensity usually reserved for battles to the death.

“Should I…should I heat the water with ki? Is that safe?” Goku had asked.

“No, Goku. You’re not microwaving the baby,” Chi-Chi had answered, with the same tone she used when scolding him for trying to eat with his hands in front of guests.

Despite the bumbling — or maybe because of it — it was perfect. Goku offered the sponge, Chi-Chi bathed her and Zoey blinked up at them like a little sage, probably wondering why this man with the wild hair and god-tier power levels was trying to make cooing noises at her like she was a kitten.

Goten, sweet 8 year old Goten, was smitten to say the least. “She’s so tiny!” he’d exclaimed, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead before asking, dead serious, “Can she start training in a month or…?”

You don’t remember what Chi-Chi said exactly but there was a slipper involved.

Now, the world had gone still again. The chaos was over, the door had stopped flying open and it was just the three of you in bed — the first night of what you hoped would be the rest of forever.

The sheets were soft. The room was quiet. Your body was sore in places you hadn’t realized could hurt and your brain still hadn’t quite caught up to the idea that you were no longer pregnant — and maybe it never would — but you were notabout to let that stop you from basking in one of life’s greatest and most underappreciated luxuries: lying face down on the bed. Something you hadn’t been able to do in months.

“I feel like a pancake,” you mumbled into the pillow, sighing happily.

“You look delicious,” Gohan teased softly from the rocking chair beside the bed, bare-chested with Zoey tucked into the crook of one arm like she was made for it — like he was made for it. His hair was a little messy, his eyes heavy-lidded but sparkling and he looked so goddamn proud, like the very act of holding her was a badge of honor he’d earned in blood and tears.

You barely had the energy to respond with more than a sleepy smile but the moment was pure, warm and utterly still… until Zoey suddenly stretched.

As she stretched, one of her ridiculously tiny, impossibly strong little fists popped up and connected — squarely and with devastating accuracy — with Gohan’s nose.

There was a crack. A very real, very audible one.

Gohan’s whole face scrunched, his eyes instantly tearing up and he held completely still, not wanting to jostle her.

From the bed, you lifted your face just enough to squint in his direction and asked, completely deadpan, “Did she just break your nose?”

“I don’t know,” he sniffled, eyes watering more by the second, “but I think I saw Namek for a second—holy crap.”

You couldn’t help it. You started laughing — full body, belly-aching, laughter that made your freshly showered limbs tremble and your cheeks ache. Gohan chuckled too, wincing as he slowly set Zoey down in her bassinet before reaching up with his free hand to check his nose.

“No blood, no dislocation,” he muttered, voice still slightly nasally. “We’re good. It’s not broken. She’s just got…one hell of a punch.”

“She’s a Saiyan,” you shrugged into your pillow. “Checks out.”

“She’s my daughter,” he said, puffing his chest and grinning even through the pain, “Of course she’s strong.”

You turned your head to look at him fully then, your heart catching in your throat at the sight — him rubbing his nose like an overgrown schoolboy, eyes still puffy from the impact, standing shirtless in soft pajama pants, and beaming down at your daughter like she was made of sunlight and stardust and she was.

The room went quiet again, save for the sound of her soft breathing, the bassinet rocking gently, and Gohan crawling back into bed beside you, wrapping one arm around your waist and pressing a long, lingering kiss to the back of your shoulder. You sighed.

He whispered, “She’s really here.”

You whispered back, “She really is.”

As you both lay there, staring up at the ceiling, your hearts full, your bodies exhausted, and the faint promise of sleepless nights on the horizon — all you could feel was the kind of peace that only comes after the storm, the kind that wraps itself around you and says this is it. You’re home now and home, from now on, would always mean Zoey.

Chapter Text

Three months.

It had been three months since the most perfect little tyrant entered the world and flipped it upside down like a snow globe — shaking everything you thought you knew, covering it in soft flakes of sleepless nights, unmatched joy, a thousand diaper changes, and a kind of love so overwhelming it sometimes made you cry in the middle of brushing your teeth and now, here you were.

Back at Target. Not just any Target. The Target.

The one with the strangely aggressive air conditioning and fluorescent lights too bright for a store selling discounted throw pillows and overpriced smoothies. The one where your life had changed in the quietest, loudest way — somewhere between the prenatal vitamins and the Flintstone gummies.

Zoey was nestled like royalty in her stroller, wearing a pastel onesie with the words “Daddy’s Girl” embroidered across the front in gold thread, a purple bow the size of a small pumpkin balanced jauntily atop her head. She looked like a baby influencer. You looked like you’d gotten three consecutive hours of sleep for the first time since the whole birth but somehow still a Goddess and Gohan?

Well, Gohan looked like he always did. Unreasonably good.

Black Henley shirt rolled at the sleeves, dark jeans, his hair a little messier than usual because Zoey had discovered she liked to grab it and wouldn’t let go until she was bribed with forehead kisses. He pushed the stroller with one hand, the other tucked comfortably into your back pocket like it belonged there — which, after everything, it did.

“You know,” he said, smirking as you passed the rows of snack options you’d memorized during pregnancy. “I still remember the exact spot.”

“Oh, do you?” you replied, pretending not to smile.

“Of course,” he said, steering the stroller with the smoothness of a man who’d clearly practiced baby-cart navigation in secret. “Vitamin aisle. Bottom shelf. You were crouched down in that black hoodie, holding a bottle of DHA gummies like it held the secrets of the universe.”

“And then you texted me and scared the life out of me,” you teased.

“In my defense I had no clue what was about to unroll next,” he argued, “I was… stunned to say the least.”

You rolled your eyes fondly as he led you, with practiced precision, down the health and wellness section. And there it was — the very aisle. The one where Gohan had realized, in a moment both terrifying and oddly beautiful, that he was going to be a father. That his life was never going to be the same.

He stopped the stroller and looked down at Zoey, who was wide-eyed and cooing, cheeks plump and pink and perfect.

“This,” he said softly, crouching beside her, “this is where I found out you existed.”

She blinked. Then she farted.

Loudly and not just any fart. The kind that echoed in the empty aisle and reverberated off the vitamin bottles like a sonic boom. Gohan froze. You choked and then you both lost it — laughing so hard you had to brace yourself on the endcap of chewable calcium tablets while tears ran down your cheeks.

“Iconic,” you gasped.

“She gets it from you,” Gohan wheezed.

“I do not fart like that—”

He shot you a look. You threw a cotton ball bag at him and then, because you couldn’t help it, you kissed him. Right there in the aisle. Just like the first time. But this one was slower, deeper, sweeter — laced with two months of exhausted love and all the words you’d already said a thousand times but somehow still weren’t enough.

When you pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours and whispered, “You know… we could start trying for a sibling.”

You blinked at him. Then you blinked again. Then you slapped his arm.

“Gohan,” you said with the dead seriousness of a woman who had just recently expelled a human from her body, “I would love to see you birth a watermelon out of your penis.”

He winced dramatically, rubbing his arm like you’d broken something. “Okay, okay, maybe when she’s… two?”

You narrowed your eyes at him, then grinned.

“Good answer,” you said, before rising on tiptoe and kissing him again — softer this time, gentler, with Zoey watching you from her stroller like she knew she was the reason behind every single beat of this perfect, chaotic love story.

And as you wheeled your little family out of that familiar fluorescent aisle and toward whatever came next, the only thing you knew for sure was this:

You would never walk into a Target again without smiling.