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His hands moved from his shirt to rest on top of his breasts delicately, like if he touched them too firmly they might vanish or stop growing. His worries about becoming a girl were far away now. For now, he was focused on the feelings. Warm fingers against hot, tight flesh. The aching tenderness of his palms against his swollen nipples. And then, when he moved, the way his breasts swung against his fingers. And through all of that, the gentle pressure of their slow growth. He squeezed, and he didn’t feel any fake firmness yet. There was still a lot more to come. He moaned, and that moan was high and soft and aching.