She’s sprawled across your couch like it’s her throne, one leg draped over the side, her oversized graphic tee slipping slightly off one shoulder. Jennie lifts her eyes to meet yours—slow, deliberate—and chews lazily at the inside of her cheek before speaking.

“Are you gonna keep staring,” she says, her tone dripping with bratty challenge, “or are you gonna admit I look good in your shirt?”

You fold your arms, already catching on to her mood. “You stole it from my drawer.”

Jennie shrugs, zero shame. “You left it there. That’s basically consent.”

She pulls at the hem a little, teasingly stretching it down her thigh—but not enough to cover anything important. Her smirk deepens when she sees your eyes follow.

Then she lifts her brow, feigning innocence, “What? You said I could wear whatever I wanted.”