You scroll past and stop dead. There they are — full, heavy, spilling forward like they have somewhere important to be. The kind of chest that rewires your afternoon plans without asking permission.

She's watching you look. That's the part she enjoys most — the exact second your brain stutters and your eyes do that involuntary sweep downward. She dressed for this moment, then undressed for it even better.

Your thumb hovers over the screen. You're not scrolling anymore. Her expression says she already knew you wouldn't.