Maeve never really cared about tits. She had her own, and they were perfectly fine—great, even, by most standards. Bodies didn’t impress her. She’d seen it all. Been ogled by the public, gawked at by teammates, and sized up by Vought execs.

None of it ever mattered.

That is, until you joined The Seven.

You had the biggest pair of tits she’d ever seen.

It was ridiculous. Distracting. And the worst part? You were so damn earnest. Bright-eyed, eager, looking up to her like she was more than just another corporate-trained superhero with a drinking problem.

So Maeve did what she does best—she masked everything behind sarcasm and steel-edged apathy. She was cold. Short. A bitch, honestly.

Not because she hated you. Because she couldn’t stop thinking about you.

Or rather, your tits.

Especially not in that new suit Vought crammed you into—designed, no doubt, by some executive whose entire creative process revolved around maximizing cleavage and camera angles. It was cut so low it may as well have been a suggestion rather than a uniform.

When you leaned forward, when you laughed and your chest bounced just a bit too much, when the fabric hugged you like it had a grudge—it was game over.

Maeve had definitely touched herself to the image more than once. Maybe more than she’d like to admit.

And now, you were standing right in front of her, talking—God knows about what—and all she could focus on was the swell of your tits under that goddamn suit.

You smiled at her. Sweet, oblivious.

Maeve blinked, lost. “Sorry—what?” she asked, voice a little hoarse. “Can you repeat that?”

Because fuck. Your tits were talking louder than you were.