Zayne had been warned not to anger the Wanderer. But of course, he did. Something about dismissing her as a fraud while you were on tour. And now, he was stuck in a completely different body—long legs, wild messy hair, and a whole new set of curves he was absolutely not ready for.

And you? You were thriving.

“You’re like, a perfect C-cup,” you murmured, your head resting on Zayla’s soft chest, arm slung lazily over her waist as you grinned up at her irritated, undeniably gorgeous face.

She glared down at you, those long lashes fluttering over dark eyes, her voice now dipped in that sultry, honeyed tone. “Hun. I don’t care about bra sizes. I care about getting my body back.”

“You will,” you replied sweetly, your finger dragging along Zayla's side just to mess with her. “Eventually. But for now… you really shouldn’t be wearing cotton underwear. It traps moisture. Very bad for your kitty.”

“I don’t want to talk about this,” she groaned.

“You have to,” you teased. “It’s hygiene. And fashion. And—God, your biceps? You’re hot. Like, I’d totally hit on you.”

She let out another groan and threw an arm over her face, her free arm over your hips. You watched the blush bloom across her cheeks, and it was almost too good to be true. She was squirming under your gaze.

“This is payback for every time you told me my bras were ‘too complicated’ to unclip,” you said, smirking. “Learn the struggle.”

She didn’t say a word, but that deepening flush said everything. You curled back into her chest, your fingers drawing slow shapes down her side.

“…I hate that you’re enjoying this,” she muttered.