Chapter Text
The sign on the shop was hand-painted, weathered wood with soft lilac script, and the faded outline of an orchid curled around the letters.
Café Guaria.
It stood just off the winding road, half-hidden behind a cluster of trees, where the cloud forest began to blur the world into mist. The building was small and simple, built from two stories of honey-colored wood, and a narrow balcony tucked under the eaves. A chalkboard menu leaned out front beside a potted fern that had clearly been thriving longer than most relationships.
Bulma slowed as she approached, purse slung over her shoulder, heels in her hand, dress clinging to her in damp folds. The air smelled like rain-soaked earth and cinnamon. Somewhere inside, she heard the hiss of steam and the clink of ceramic mugs.
A breeze rustled through the vines on the trellis, carrying the scent of coffee— real coffee, not hotel espresso or airport sludge. The kind of smell that made your shoulders drop and your heart remember how to beat right.
She looked up at the orchid on the sign again.
Guaria morada —Costa Rica’s national flower. A symbol of peace, love, and hope.
She’d seen the name before on tourist brochures, street signs, the back of a hotel napkin. But she hadn’t thought much of it when she stepped off the plane a few days ago. Now, standing there, drenched and alone in a foreign country, something in her chest eased.
She pushed open the door.
It creaked open with the weight of swollen wood and old hinges.
Inside, the walls were lined with coffee sacks, faded maps, and framed prints of orchids in bloom. A quiet little pocket of life carved into the mountain. Wooden shelves were lined with jars of cinnamon sticks, cacao nibs, and raw sugar. Steam curled from a tin kettle on the stove. There was a dark counter placed directly in front of it, the wood pleasantly scratched and buffed over with years of use.
And behind the counter stood a man. The only person in the cafe.
He wore a grey soft cotton T-shirt that clung to his shoulders, sleeves rolled up to mid bicep, forearms dusted with coffee grounds. His back had been to her when she walked in, working a chorreador , the traditional wooden stand with a cloth filter dangling from it. He poured hot water into it, slowly and steadily, eyes focused, his shoulders tight.
When he finally turned to set down the mug he’d obviously been brewing for himself, her breath caught. It was unfair, just how handsome he was. Strong jaw, dark hair damp from the steam, eyes sharp even from across the room. Not polished, not pretty-boy cute like Yamcha—no, this was something else. Rougher. Sharper. The kind of face you noticed even when you didn’t want to.
And then his eyes landed on her.
Barefoot. Dripping. Mascara streaked down her cheeks in ruin.
He froze.
Bulma stared back, chest rising and falling, soaked lace clinging to her collarbones.
She didn’t even pretend to smile. “Do you speak English?”
After some uncomfortable amount of time, the man raised an eyebrow. “No,” he responded, and began wiping something on the stovetop.
Bulma let out a humorless breath. “Of course you don’t.”
She reached into her purse, pulled out a handful of damp colones, and slapped them on the counter.
“Negro café… por favor.” Her Spanish was awful. Her voice cracked halfway through.
He blinked. Looked at the money. Then at her. Then back at the money.
Bulma sniffed. “Unless you don’t…fuck…I mean... ¿Tener café?” Her accent was butchered. Everything felt butchered.
Still, he didn’t answer. He just nodded once, and turned.
She watched him work, half-dazed. There was a quiet hum somewhere in the back. A baby’s giggle. The clink of dishes.
He poured another coffee. The cloth filter dripped steadily into a hand-thrown ceramic mug. The smell hit her then—smoky, earthy. It was so good it made her knees weak.
The man moved with quiet confidence, never looking at her again. As if she hadn’t just walked in wearing a $20,000 wedding dress in full visual meltdown mode.
He set the mug on the counter with neither flourish or smile.
Then, softly he spoke in a voice that sounded like dry leaves brushing over stone. “Mil ciento cincuenta.”
She squinted.
His brow furrowed into a scowl. “Mil… ciento… cincuenta.” He repeated in a quiet drawl.
Bulma pushed the rest of her crumpled bills forward. “Yeah, I don’t know what that means. Just, whatever. Keep it.”
He sighed, took one bill—the red 500—and slid the rest back.
She wrapped her hands around the mug. The heat seeped into her bones. She didn’t say thank you. He wasn’t looking at her anymore anyway. She took her coffee and moved to the nearest table, sliding into a seat like her legs didn’t belong to her anymore. Then she took a sip.
It was good. Stupid good. Rich and bitter and alive.
She let out a sound—half laugh, half sob—and pressed the cup to her lips again.
When she glanced up to see what the man was doing, she caught him watching her.
Just for a second.
“It’s good,” she murmured, then hesitated. “Es…¿bueno?”
Across the counter, his shoulders shifted. His gaze dropped.
“Hm,” was all he said.
Outside, the rain kept falling. Inside, she breathed for the first time since being left at the altar.
She sat there in silence for long after the coffee was gone.
A door creaked open near the back, finally breaking the quiet inside the shop.
“¡Vegeta! Los filtros ya están limpios,” came a woman's voice. A moment later, she heard the soft patter of bare baby feet on wood, a squeal of delight, and the rhythmic sound of a child being hoisted.
Bulma didn’t look up until the woman came fully into view. She was early-thirties, dark-haired, wearing a loose apron that was embroidered with Café Guaria and holding a bright-eyed toddler on one hip.
She took one look at Bulma and stopped short.
“Oh my god,” she breathed. “Are you okay?”
Bulma flinched a little. “I’m fine.”
“You are…” The woman shook her head in disbelief. “You’re soaked. And that’s a…? Is that a wedding dress?”
Bulma nodded slowly. “It was.”
The toddler babbled something unintelligible to her, then reached one chubby arm toward Bulma like he was offering sympathy. The woman shifted him and crossed the room quickly, crouching beside the table.
“Did someone hurt you? I mean…physically?” she asked, voice suddenly quiet and firm. “Do I need to call someone? The police or the embassy?”
Bulma shook her head, surprised by how fast the tears tried to return. “No, no nothing like that. I just… got stood up. By my fiance. In Tamarindo.”
The woman stared at her, processing. “And you came all the way up here? It is a three and a half hour trip.”
“There was a shuttle parked right outside the venue,” she said slowly. “The driver was this massive guy with wild hair. He leaned out, asked if I was lost, said something like, ‘Coffee capital’s up the hill.’”
She gave a soft, disbelieving laugh.
“I didn’t even think. I just got in.”
Her eyes flicked downward. “I don’t even remember what we talked about the whole ride. I think I was crying most of the way.”
“He dropped me off here, I think. But I walked around in the rain for a while first. Pathetic, I know.”
Her fingers curled tighter around the empty mug.
The woman stood slowly, hand still cradling the back of the child’s head.
“You’re not pathetic,” she said gently. “You’re a bride with a broken heart and no dry clothes.”
She gave Bulma a long, assessing look.
“Still, don’t go getting into cars with strangers, yeah?”
A faint smile tugged at her mouth. “You’re lucky you caught someone decent. Unlike some people. ”
She turned toward the counter, suddenly fuming. “¿Vegeta, en serio? ¿La dejaste sentada así nada más? ¿Qué te pasa, mae?”
The man grunted something back without turning. “No pidió nada más que un café.”
The woman’s face turned grim. “¡Pudiste ofrecerle una toalla!”
The man gave another grunt. Possibly a shrug.
“I’m sorry about him.” The woman looked back at her, mouth softening into something sympathetic. “That tonto over there is Vegeta. I’m Chi-Chi. This is my son Gohan. I work here. And you are…?”
“Bulma.”
“Well, Bulma,” she said, “I’m not gonna let you sit in a puddle in a destroyed dress. Give me two minutes. I’ll find you something warm and dry to wear, and then I’ll bring you some real food.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I really do,” Chi-Chi said. “Otherwise I won’t sleep tonight.”
Chi-Chi turned sharply toward the back. “Voy a buscarla ropa seca,” she called out, already moving. “Vegeta, cuida a tu sobrino.”
“No es mi sobrino , ” he groused, but reached for the boy all the same. Gohan latched on instinctively, one chubby arm flung around Vegeta’s neck, face nestled against his collarbone.
Bulma watched the exchange with a kind of dazed disbelief. The man—Vegeta, probably the child’s father—balanced the toddler on his hip without thinking, like he’d done it a hundred times before. His free hand wiped absently at a faint splash of milk on the counter. It looked so natural…unfairly so.
Then, without warning, Gohan grabbed a fistful of his shirt, leaned in, and pressed a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss to Vegeta’s cheek.
Vegeta didn’t flinch. He just exhaled through his nose, and shifted the kid a little higher on his hip like this happened all the time.
Something quiet and wistful tugged at the corner of Bulma’s mouth.
She rose slowly, still dripping and humiliated, and crossed to the bar with her mug cupped in both hands and set it down.
“Okay,” she said, voice raw but steady, “since you don’t understand a word I’m saying, I’m just going to talk. Because if I don’t, I might scream.”
Vegeta gave no reaction, no sign he’d even heard her.
She took it as permission.
“I was supposed to get married this morning. Like, actually married. White dress, music, vows, cake shaped like a sandcastle. It was ugly and ridiculous. He—Yamcha picked it. Said it was ‘tropical chic.’ It was god-awful.”
Gohan hiccupped. Vegeta adjusted him wordlessly.
Bulma exhaled sharply, brushing damp hair from her face. “He was late. First we thought he couldn’t get a taxi. Then maybe he was hungover. Turns out? He was in bed with my maid of honor. Faith. Ironic name, right? My best friend. And he didn’t even tell me himself—he just…left a voicemail with the hotel staff.”
She stared down at the scratched surface of the counter.
“I didn’t cry. Not at first. Just sat there in the shuttle on the way up here for a few minutes thinking, ‘Huh. I guess I’m free now.’ But then I realized I have no idea what that even means. We were together for 8 years. The best years of my life. And now I’m 29 and…”
She swallowed hard, unable to finish that sentence.
“And you know the worst part about this whole thing?” She gave a soft, bitter laugh. “I’m not even mad at him. I’m mad at myself. For not running sooner.”
She looked up.
Vegeta’s expression hadn’t changed. Gohan was chewing on the collar of his shirt, but he made no move to stop him.
“You’re really not gonna say anything, huh?”
Nothing.
“Cool. Perfect. You’re just a brick wall with beautiful deltoids.”
She played with the coffee cup.
“I should be on my honeymoon. But instead I’m here, barefoot, talking to a man who probably thinks I’m unhinged.”
Gohan babbled something and reached toward her. Bulma offered him a tired smile.
“You, at least, seem nonjudgmental.”
Still, no answer. Just the faint sway of Vegeta’s body as he rocked the child.
But something had shifted. His eyes had softened the slightest bit.
“I found you something!” Chi-Chi called from the back. “It might be a little loose, but it’s clean and dry.”
Bulma gave him one last look. “Thanks for listening,” she said, even if he hadn’t.
She turned to go.
“Is there a bathroom around here?”
Chi-Chi pointed to a narrow hallway near the kitchen and handed her a bundle. “Back there, second door on the right.”
Bulma nodded, clutching the borrowed clothes to her chest as she padded off barefoot.
As the door clicked shut behind her, Gohan turned to Vegeta, tugged at his shirt again, and whispered, “Bonita, tío.”
Vegeta scowled.
Before he could say anything, Chi-Chi scooped Gohan back into her arms, smiling sweetly. “Sí, mi amor. Es una chica muy bonita. ¿Verdad que sí, Vegeta?”
Vegeta muttered, “Déjame en paz, mujer.” and turned away.
Chi-Chi just smirked.
Bulma returned after some time in borrowed yoga shorts, a baggy white tee that read Pura Vida and some old, hot pink Havaianas . Her hair was towel-dried, her mascara mostly scrubbed off, and she had the sharp ache of someone who’d finally stopped crying just long enough to feel the bruises.
The grumpy barista was sweeping behind the bar now, frown firmly in place. He didn’t look at her.
Chi-Chi emerged from the kitchen, apron dusted with flour and sugar. “You feeling a little more human now?”
“Yes, glad to be out of that thing.” Bulma admitted, flopping back into her seat. “Thanks again for not thinking I was crazy.”
Chi-Chi snorted. “Please. Around here, you’re not even the weirdest tourist we’ve seen this year.”
“Seriously?”
“Last month we had a guy who swore he was being chased by howler monkeys. Turned out he was high. Very high.”
Bulma almost smiled.
Chi-Chi slid a plate in front of her—rice, black beans, fried plantains, a thick slice of cheese, and an egg that looked like it had been cooked with maternal intent. “Eat.”
As Bulma picked up her fork, she nodded toward Vegeta. “He always this… cheerful?”
Chi-Chi glanced over. “Vegeta? That is his cheerful face.”
Bulma took a bite of the plantains and moaned without shame. “This is the best thing I’ve eaten in years.”
Chi-Chi sat across from her with a tea in hand. Gohan was now sitting on a blanket in the corner playing with a little stuffed toucan. “Glad it helps. Food and strong coffee cure at least forty percent of all life crises.”
Bulma nodded. “And therapy?”
“Another forty.”
“What’s the last twenty?”
Chi-Chi smirked. “Spite.”
Bulma laughed, a real one this time. Then her eyes flicked toward the counter again—where Vegeta was crouched behind the grinder, clearly pretending not to listen while very much listening.
She leaned in. “Okay, I have to ask.”
Chi-Chi tilted her head. “Yeah?”
Bulma lowered her voice to a stage whisper and gestured toward Vegeta. “Your husband. Does he really not speak English?”
Chi-Chi’s eyes widened. “My… what?”
“Vegeta,” Bulma clarified, like she was pointing out a wild jaguar. “Brooding barista. Hot coffee troll. Respectfully of course. That guy.”
Chi-Chi made a strangled sound. “Dios—no. Nooo. He’s not my husband.”
Bulma froze, fork halfway to her mouth. “He’s not ?”
Chi-Chi shook her head, biting back a grin. “Definitely not. In fact, he’s horribly and sadly single.”
Bulma slapped her hand on the table—announcing just a little too loud, “Then I don’t even feel bad saying this: that is the most unfairly attractive man I’ve ever seen in my life.”
Chi-Chi raised an eyebrow and looked over at him, raising her voice. “Right? Like it’s personally offensive.”
Bulma sighed, stabbing another bite of plantain. “I’ve been single for a few hours and he’s already ruining it for everyone else.”
Vegeta’s hand twitched. A scoop of beans missed the grinder entirely and hit the floor.
Bulma looked up. “Oops. Looks like someone missed the mark.”
Chi-Chi was mid-sip of her tea, trying very hard not to laugh.
Then Gohan burbled. And burped. Loudly.
“Oh no —” Chi-Chi lunged, but it was too late.
A cascade of half-digested plantains and god-knows-what splattered across his t shirt.
“¡Carajo! Okay. Okay—bathroom. Be right back.” She stood, cradling the now giggling toddler with veteran efficiency. “Don’t go anywhere, Bulma.”
“I won’t!” Bulma called, as Chi-Chi disappeared into the back with the dripping child. “I’m just going to sit here and reflect on my many, many life choices!”
That left only her and Vegeta. Again.
He was rinsing the rear counter now, back turned, pretending she didn’t exist.
Bulma tapped her fingers on the table.
“So,” she said, eyes narrowing, “you really don’t speak English. Not even a little?”
Nothing.
“Right. Okay. You’re just some poor, silent barista who hates tourists and has no idea how hot he is.”
He continued cleaning.
Bulma tilted her head. “It’s fine. I talk to myself all the time. Especially now that I’ve been publicly humiliated, emotionally gutted, and waterboarded by tropical rain.”
Still nothing.
“You’re kind of an ass, though. No offense.” She kept eating, watching him. “Actually, offense. You could’ve said something while I was having a meltdown earlier. Even in Spanish.”
Vegeta replaced a portafilter with a little too much force.
Bulma snickered. “Wow. Even your appliances are grumpy.”
She leaned forward, conspiratorially. “You know, I’ve had a rough day. And I may or may not be emotionally unstable and delirious. But you, you look like the human version of a ‘Do Not Enter’ sign. Which, don’t ask me why, is really doing it for me today.”
He still wasn’t looking at her, but the tips of his ears were pink. Probably from the humidity.
“But hey, don’t worry,” she added brightly, waving her hands like she was on stage, “I’m not going to seduce you. I’m definitely not your type. I’m loud, and high-maintenance, and I currently probably smell like regret and the little tree air freshener from the travel van. But just for the record—”
The bell over the door jingled.
A tall man strode in with sun-flushed skin, a lopsided grin, and hair so wildly tousled it looked like it had its own personality. He was holding a bunch of little red bananas like a trophy. “Yo Vegeta! You left the roaster plugged in again. Chi-Chi said if it catches fire, she’s gonna castrate you.”
Vegeta froze.
Bulma blinked.
The man caught sight of her and did a visible double take. “Oh hey, you must be visiting Monteverde! Looks like you met the town grump.”
He thumbed toward Vegeta and added with a lopsided grin, “Let me guess—he’s pulling the whole silent barista act? Pfft. Don’t let it fool you. His English is way better than mine, and I’m a tour guide.”
The taller man—still completely unaware he’d just set fire to the room—laughed a little. “He does that to tourists sometimes. Says if he pretends not to understand, they leave him alone faster.”
Vegeta closed his eyes like he was actively willing himself into another dimension.
Bulma turned. Slowly. Mechanically. The kind of turn people made in horror movies, just before they screamed.
Vegeta had gone very still. Very stiff. Very… guilty.
Her voice was barely audible. “You mother fucker. You speak English?”
No answer.
She stood and began to step closer and closer to the bar. “You understood me?”
Still nothing.
Another step. “All of it?”
The other man shifted uncomfortably. “Uh… should I not have said that?”
Vegeta let out a breath through his nose—resigned. “Fuck.”
Bulma’s jaw dropped.
The man, still trying to be helpful, offered a hand. “I’m Goku, by the way. I’m sure you met my wife, Chi-Chi.”
She didn’t take it. She didn’t move. Just stared at Vegeta, eyes wide with disbelief and barely-contained rage.
Then, very slowly, she picked up the mug on the counter.
She paused.
And set it down carefully.
“You are so lucky I am too emotionally wrecked to throw this at your head.”
Vegeta, who finally had the audacity to make eye contact with her, calmly responded in perfect English.
“I’d prefer you didn’t. That’s one of our good mugs.”
Each word he spoke rasped with a hint of accent, like rough cloth against bare skin. She wrapped her arms around herself reflexively.
The realization then hit her that he’d understood everything —her meltdown, her rambling insults, her half-delerious, half-horny monologue.
Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
“You—You—” She pointed at him. “You absolute— You !”
Vegeta raised an eyebrow.
“I told you that you were hot!” she yelped. “I said I smelled like regret ! You let me— you let me ramble! ”
Goku had the decency to wince. “Yeah, I probably shouldn’t have said anything.”
Just then, the back door creaked open.
Chi-Chi stepped into the café, holding a damp towel and looking suspiciously cheerful. “Hey! Did I miss—”
She stopped. Took one look at Bulma’s face. One look at Vegeta’s. Then slowly turned toward Goku, who was trying very hard to become invisible.
Her eyes narrowed. “What did you do?”
“I didn’t mean to—” Goku began.
Chi-Chi held up a hand. “Don’t. Don’t even.”
Then she turned to Bulma. “So. You found out he speaks English?”
Bulma made a strangled noise. “Yes.”
Chi-Chi just grinned.
Several awkward hours later, the rain had finally broken, and the clouds had cleared just enough to let the sun spotlight the chaos of Bulma’s life. “Thanks again,” Bulma said, awkwardly. “For the clothes. The food. The shelter. And, you know… not institutionalizing me.”
Chi-Chi gave a brisk little wave of her hand. “You’re fine. Gohan likes you. That’s usually a good sign.”
Bulma tried a smile. “Well, I should probably get going. Find a hotel, maybe a cab, and figure out my life from there…”
She trailed off mid-sentence.
Chi-Chi watched her pat her borrowed clothes. Check her soaked clutch. Dig with increasing urgency.
Then the color drained from Bulma’s face.
“My passport.”
“Not in the bag?”
Bulma shook her head, panic blooming. “It was with my luggage. My assistant packed everything, but all my stuff’s still at the resort in my room.”
Chi-Chi’s expression shifted instantly. “Okay. We can call them. Maybe they’ll send it…”
“I am not calling them,” Bulma snapped. “They’re in the bridal suite together. I’d rather set myself on fire and roll into the ocean.”
Chi-Chi pulled her phone out with a sigh. “Okay, then let’s see if…¡Ay, bendito!”
Bulma looked at her. “I don’t know what that means, but it feels like a bad sign.”
ChiChi turned the screen toward Bulma. “It looks like the weather has been severe. It says that las rutas 606 and 1 are closed due to a landslide. Emergency access only for at least 10 days. But maybe more.”
Bulma stared at it blankly. “Is this a joke?”
Chi-Chi gave her a sympathetic shrug. “Welcome to Monteverde. Rainy season likes to fuck around.”
“I can’t stay in a hotel without an ID,” Bulma panicked. “Can’t rent a car, can’t leave, can’t even buy tampons with the cash I have left.”
Chi-Chi crossed her arms, voice brooking no argument. “Then you’ll stay here.”
“What?”
“You’ll stay in the attic, here at the store. We’ve got a cot and extra blankets. You can help out around the café if you want. You’re not leaving until you’ve got your ID, and I’m not letting you sleep outside with the monos like some feral tourist.”
Bulma opened her mouth to protest—but Chi-Chi gave her a look that could stop a charging bull.
“I will feed you, house you, and mother you. Do not test me, mija.”
From across the café, a shadow stirred. Vegeta leaned in the doorway to the roasting room, arms folded, expression dark. “¿Qué? No.”
“Sí cabrón,” Chi-Chi snapped, not even flinching. “She has nowhere else to go.”
“Esa mujer no es nuestro problema.”
Chi-Chi turned just enough to shoot him a warning glare. “Ella va a dormir en el altillo. Y si no te gusta, también puede quedarse en tu casa. Tienes un cuarto libre.”
Vegeta’s scowl deepened. His jaw tensed. But he didn’t argue.
Bulma looked between them, blinking. “Okay, I don’t get what you’re saying, but I’m getting the vibe that he’s not happy about this.”
Chi-Chi ignored her and kept talking to him. “If you’re going to sulk, do it while sweeping. And don’t forget the back steps this time.”
Still muttering under his breath, Vegeta disappeared into the roasting room again.
Bulma turned back to Chi-Chi, heart racing. “You’re seriously being so nice to me and I don’t—I don’t deserve it. You don’t even know me.”
Chi-Chi gave a small, one-shouldered shrug. “You look like a woman who just got knocked on her ass and kept standing. That’s enough for me.”
Bulma blinked, throat tightening. “Still. You barely know anything about me.”
Chi-Chi softened. “This is the tico way, cariño. We take care of people. You needed help. That’s all I need to know.”
Bulma let out a shaky breath. “You’re gonna make me cry again.”
Chi-Chi laughed. “Not on my clean floors, you won’t. Now c’mon. Let’s get you set up.”
After being fed once more and given a spare phone charger plus another set of clothes, Bulma lay on the narrow cot beneath the sloped ceiling of the café attic, wrapped in a borrowed blanket that smelled faintly like fabric softener and old wood. The rain outside was beginning again. A light, steady patter on the roof. Her wedding dress, now just a soaked heap in a plastic bag, sat balled up beside the door like some expired version of herself.
Her phone buzzed. She looked at the caller ID.
“Momma”
She considered ignoring it. But then she sighed and answered. “Hey.”
“Sweetheart!” Panchy’s voice poured in, sunny and full of worry. “Oh, it’s good to hear your voice. Are you okay? Daddy’s here with me.”
“Yeah,” Bulma said, shifting on the cot. “I’m okay.”
“Where are you now?” her dad asked, casual but listening closely.
“Mountains,” she said. “A little coffee town. It’s quiet. Rainy. Pretty.”
“Sounds dramatic,” Dr. Briefs mused. “Fitting.”
“We just wanted to check in before our flight,” Panchy added. “We’ll be home tomorrow night. You don’t have to say much. Just wanted to hear you.”
Bulma swallowed the lump rising in her throat. “Thanks. I’m safe. I’m dry. There’s a café and a woman named Chi-Chi who’s been looking after me.”
Panchy let out a breath. “That’s good. That’s very good.”
“No shady beach cabanas or cults, then?” her dad said mildly.
“No cults. Just coffee.” She hesitated, then added, “It’s actually kind of nice here. I might…stay a while.”
“Take all the time you need, sweetheart,” Panchy said gently. “We’ll be here when you’re ready.”
“I know.”
“And don’t worry,” Dr. Briefs added, “Yamcha’s not allowed on any Capsule Corp property ever again. I’ve revoked his guest pass and threatened to launch his sports car into orbit.”
Bulma smiled, eyes stinging. “Thanks, Dad.”
There was a pause. Then her mother’s voice softened. “We love you.”
“So much,” her dad echoed.
“Love you too,” Bulma said.
She ended the call before her voice could give her away, then lay back and listened to more rain settle in.