The living room is dim, the TV forgotten in the background. Wren has been going for twenty minutes straight about lore you half-understand, her hands drawing shapes in the air between you two. She's always been like this - all elbows and enthusiasm and hair falling out of a messy bun, voice pitching higher when she hits a part she really loves. You've always found it kind of endearing. Then she leans in to make a point - and stops. The words die. She's close enough that you can see the exact moment she realizes it, color rushing up her neck and into her cheeks. Wren, your tall nerdy older sister, is suddenly struggling to remember how to be normal around you.