Over the next three days, Krillin practically lived inside the Gravity Room.
At first, he could barely manage basic movements under ten times gravity.
By the third day, he was already throwing high-intensity shadowboxing combinations at twelve times gravity.
That bittersweet sensation of his bones compressing, fracturing at the microscopic level, and rebuilding stronger each time became addictive.
Under this brutal strain, the integration rate of the saitama template skyrocketed.
On the afternoon of the fourth day, Krillin had just stepped out of the shower when Bulma cornered him in the hallway.
"Put this on and follow me."
She tossed him a bathrobe, holding a clipboard and a measuring tape.
"Where to?"
"My workshop. The materials for your Battle Suit have arrived, but I need precise body data. Yesterday's scan had slight deviations.
If the nanofibers don't fit perfectly, they won't disperse impact properly. Worse, they could restrict your movement."
Bulma spoke with complete professionalism.
That is, if one ignored the slightly tight, low-cut camisole she had chosen to wear today.
Her workshop occupied the top floor of the villa, bathed in natural sunlight.
Blueprints, circuit boards, and mechanical components were scattered everywhere.
"Stand on that platform."
Krillin stepped onto the circular platform and casually untied the belt of his bathrobe.
Bulma's hand paused mid-adjustment.
Even though she had seen him multiple times over the past few days, the sight of that body—lean yet packed with power—being revealed again in private still made her breath hitch.
There were only the two of them in the room.
"Raise your arms."
She tried to keep her tone steady.
As she approached with the measuring tape, the faint scent of citrus perfume drifted toward him.
The cool tape pressed against Krillin's warm chest.
"Chest circumference. Inhale."
He inhaled obediently. His chest expanded, muscles tightening like carved stone.
Bulma's fingers brushed against his skin.
Her touch was soft and cool, contrasting sharply with the heat radiating from him.
"Don't move."
She lightly tapped his pectoral muscle. "It's like measuring a rock. I can't even pull the tape tight."
"Natural reaction," Krillin replied calmly.
He looked down at her as she focused on reading the numbers.
From his angle, he could see the gentle curve of her neckline and the way her lashes trembled as she concentrated.
"Waist."
Bulma crouched, wrapping the tape around him.
The position looked far too much like an embrace.
Her cheek nearly brushed his abdomen. Her warm breath tickled his skin.
Krillin felt her pause.
Instead of tightening the tape immediately, her hands lingered for a brief second.
The room fell silent.
Even the distant sound of cicadas seemed to fade.
"Um… Bulma?" Krillin asked, amusement hidden in his voice. "Are you done?"
"W-what's the rush!" She quickly tightened the tape and read the measurement.
"Waist seventy-eight… these proportions are completely unscientific…"
She stood up, face flushed bright red, avoiding his eyes.
"Next is arm span and back width."
She stepped behind him to measure his shoulders.
When her hands pressed against his broad back, Krillin suddenly asked, "When Yamcha got clothes made, did you measure him like this too?"
Her hands froze.
"Never," she said quietly. "He just bought clothes off the rack and complained they weren't cool enough."
"So I'm the first?"
Krillin turned around.
They were suddenly face to face, barely any distance between them.
Bulma instinctively stepped back—only to hit the workbench behind her.
"So what if you are," she said, lifting her chin stubbornly. Her blue eyes shimmered with embarrassment and pride.
"This Young Miss is a genius scientist. Only someone worthy of my effort gets to wear a Battle Suit I personally design."
"Then I should feel honored."
Krillin placed one hand on the workbench beside her, effectively trapping her in place.
It was an unmistakably dominant pose.
Bulma's heart pounded wildly.
Fresh from his shower, he carried a clean scent mixed with something undeniably masculine.
"What are you doing…" Her voice was barely audible.
"Cooperating with measurements," he replied calmly.
He leaned closer—not touching her—just enough for his breath to brush her ear.
"The arm span hasn't been measured yet. This seems more convenient, doesn't it?"
Her ear turned red instantly.
The measuring tape slipped from her fingers and fell to the floor.
Just as the tension reached its peak—
"Ahem! Sorry to interrupt."
Dr. Brief stood in the doorway, pipe in mouth, wrench in hand, looking utterly innocent.
The black cat perched on his head stared at them with obvious judgment.
"Bulma, where's the polymer glue? The hydraulic rod in my Gravity Room broke again. I need to stick it back together."
Bulma shrieked and shoved Krillin away, grabbing a wrench and hurling it toward her father.
"Dad!!! Don't you know how to knock before coming in?!"
"Oh dear, young people these days…" Dr. Brief said as he effortlessly dodged the wrench.
He picked up the glue from the floor and shuffled out. "Carry on. No rush. Krillin already cracked the floor anyway, so a little delay won't matter."
The door shut.
The atmosphere evaporated instantly.
Bulma crouched down, covering her burning face with both hands.
Krillin couldn't help laughing.
He picked up the measuring tape and gently placed it back in her hand.
"Alright, no more distractions. Let's finish. I want to wear this suit soon."
Bulma glared at him.
But there was no real anger in her eyes—only emotions threatening to spill over.
The rest of the measurements proceeded much faster, and much quieter.
Yet every brush of fingertips felt like sparks.
The fire never burst into open flame.
But something called "liking" had already melted quietly into their bones.