**Musutafu, Old Industrial Quarter – Yamcha's Rooftop Den – January 23–29, 2026**
The first full week in the new place passed in a rhythm Yamcha hadn't known he needed, a rhythm both comforting and quietly strange.
Mornings began with sunlight pouring through the massive windows, turning the concrete floor gold and casting long, soft shadows across the loft. He woke early—habit from years of training—and started with stretches, feeling his muscles wake and stretch into the day. Then shadowboxing, the heavy bag thumping under his fists with a steady rhythm, echoing faintly off the bare walls. The Wolf Fang Fist flowed smoother here, no distractions, no noise, just him and the echo of his own breaths and the muted hum of the city below.
But the silence crept in, creeping slowly into the corners of the loft and his mind.
During sparring drills, he'd pause mid-combo, expecting a small blue shape to dart in—Puar transforming into a sparring dummy, or a shield, or just a cat leaping onto his shoulder with a cheerful, "Got your back, Yamcha!" The absence hit hardest then. He'd laugh it off, shake his head, and keep going—but the bag felt heavier without the playful banter bouncing off the walls. He missed the little sounds of encouragement, the lighthearted mischief, the way Puar had always known exactly when to appear, as if reading his every thought.
Evenings were quieter still. He cooked simple meals (ramen upgraded with whatever Nemuri had taught him), savored them slowly, and washed the dishes while thinking of the past. He watched old hero documentaries on a salvaged TV, listening to stories that reminded him of fights, victories, losses, and bonds he could never forget. Sometimes he sat on the edge of the mattress, staring at the distant city lights blinking through the smog, wondering what his friends were doing. The bed felt too big. Too empty. No small weight curled against his side, no soft purring or sudden shape-shift into a pillow when he couldn't sleep, no gentle warmth that had always anchored him.
He missed the noise. The companionship. The one constant who never judged, never left, who had been there through every reckless plan and every quiet moment.
Nemuri started coming over almost every day.
She'd arrive after patrol—hair wind-tousled, smelling faintly of her quirk's fragrance mixed with the crisp night air—carrying takeout, wine, or just herself. The first time she stayed for dinner, she kicked off her boots, curled on the couch (which was really just piled blankets and cushions), and declared:
"This place needs more life. And less takeout boxes."
They ate on the floor, legs tangled, laughing about patrol stories, minor mishaps, and small embarrassments they had never shared before. She helped him hang the last of the wolf motifs—simple black-and-red paintings of fangs and howling silhouettes. "Fits the alpha vibe," she teased, brushing paint on his cheek "accidentally," and he caught the tiny smirk in her eyes.
Training together became routine.
She'd watch him work the bag, then join—her whip cracking in rhythm with his strikes, a sound that mingled with his own heavy breathing. They sparred lightly, testing limits. She'd dodge his combos with graceful spins, he'd counter her fragrance clouds with bursts of speed. More than once they ended up tangled on the mats, breathing hard, laughing, lips brushing in half-kisses that promised more, teasing each other with playful smirks, lingering touches, and shared glances.
The loft slowly changed.
Her toothbrush appeared in the makeshift bathroom. A bottle of her favorite perfume sat on the shelf, blending faintly with the lingering scent of him. A soft purple throw blanket (her contribution) draped over the couch, adding color and softness to the otherwise stark space. The loft stopped feeling like a lone wolf's hideout and started feeling… shared, warm, and alive with their small, quiet life together.
One evening, after a long patrol, they collapsed onto the mattress together. Yamcha stared at the ceiling beams while Nemuri's head rested on his chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his stomach, soft and warm against his skin.
"You're quiet tonight," she murmured, voice barely above a whisper.
He exhaled slowly, letting memories drift across his mind like leaves on a gentle river.
"Just thinking. About the old days."
She propped herself up on one elbow, looking down at him with an expression somewhere between curiosity and concern.
"Tell me more. About Puar. About them."
Yamcha's gaze drifted to the window, to the distant lights stretching across the city.
"Puar was… family. Not blood, but closer. Always there. When I was a dumb kid bandit in the desert, he followed me anyway. Turned into whatever I needed—food when we starved, a ride when I was too tired to walk, a weapon when I had to fight. Never complained. Never asked for anything."
His voice softened, heavy with nostalgia and a subtle ache.
"And the others… Bulma was brilliant, bossy, beautiful. Goku—pure heart, unstoppable force. Krillin, Tien… we were a team. But I always felt like the weak link. The one who needed saving. Puar never made me feel that way. He just… stayed. Always there, without judgment, without hesitation."
Nemuri listened without interrupting, her hand still resting on his chest, warm and grounding.
"I get it," she said quietly after a long pause. "Feeling like you don't quite fit. My quirk… Somnambulist. People love it until they realize it can turn on them. Friends pull away. Lovers get nervous. I learned early to keep people at arm's length. Seduce, but don't let them close. Because if they get too close, they might wake up afraid of me."
She traced the scar on his cheek lightly, a gesture full of care.
"But with you… I don't want distance. I want to be here. In your den. In your life. Even when it's quiet. Even when the ghosts are loud."
Yamcha turned to her, eyes soft in the dim light.
"You're not afraid of me?"
She smiled—slow, warm, real, radiating a quiet confidence.
"I'm afraid of losing this. Of you thinking you still have to carry everything alone."
He pulled her closer, lips brushing hers with a tenderness that spoke of trust, longing, and quiet joy.
"I'm not alone anymore."
The kiss deepened—slow at first, then urgent. Hands roaming, clothes shed in quiet rustles. No rush, no performance. Just skin against skin, breaths mingling, the city a distant hum below, a witness to their shared warmth.
Afterward, they lay tangled in blankets, her head tucked under his chin, his arm around her waist. The room smelled of her perfume and their shared warmth, of safety, of belonging.
Nemuri whispered against his collarbone:
"Stay with me. Every night. Make this ours."
Yamcha kissed her forehead, gently, meaning every word.
"Already is."
Morning light filtered through the windows. Yamcha woke first, Nemuri still curled against him, breathing soft and even. For the first time in this world, the silence didn't feel empty.
It felt full.
He had a home.
A partner.
A beginning.
And somewhere, in the quiet spaces of his heart, Puar's memory smiled—happy that his best friend had finally found someone who stayed, someone who would never leave.