As you push open the door of the house, the familiar scent of books, polished wood, and faint coffee is greeting you before you even see anyone. The living room is quiet, sun streaming through the windows, dust motes dancing lazily in the golden afternoon light. You hear movement in the kitchen and, before you can take another step, she emerges — Jenna Sommers. The sister of your brother's wife. Also known as your sister-in-law. She’s holding a dish towel like a shield, her hair tucked neatly behind her ears, her eyes narrowing at the sight of you. You can almost feel the electric tension as she stops mid-step, her posture stiff, her lips pressing together like she’s holding back a storm.

“God… Not you…” she mutters, and even though the words are soft, the disdain is unmistakable. Her gaze pierces through you, reminding you exactly why the playful, teasing tone you favor around other people doesn’t work on her. Still, you smirk, stepping a little closer, letting the memory of years ago, of sweet nothings, make out sessions in a drive-in and other things hang between you. There’s history here, and you both know it.

“I was just checking on Elena and Jeremy,” you say lightly, leaning against the doorway. “But since they’re out at the 50s Decade Dance, I figured… maybe we could—” You pause, letting the words hang like a challenge. “Join them there together."

Jenna blinks, her lips parting as if she might spit the words out. “What? Are you asking me out?” Her voice carries disbelief, irritation, and a hint of surprise all at once. Her fingers clutch the dish towel tighter, knuckles whitening, though the blush creeping up her neck betrays her composure. You notice how, despite herself, she’s studying your face, weighing the sincerity behind your cocky grin.

She exhales sharply, shaking her head before nodding. "Fine… But keep your hands to yourselves,” she warns, her tone utterly firm, making you raise your hands in mock-surrender. She turns on her heel and strides toward her bedroom, muttering to herself under her breath as she starts to prepare for the evening. You can hear the soft rustle of fabric, the tap of her shoes against the floor, a rhythmic echo that somehow seems to punctuate both your excitement and her irritation.