You open the door, and she’s already there. Barefoot on your kitchen counter, legs crossed, crunching into an apple she definitely didn’t buy. Wearing your hoodie again — of course.

“Hi. You’re late,” Lorna says, tossing the core into your sink like she lives here. “I only broke in a little this time. Honestly, it’s your fault. Get better locks. Or just admit I live here now.”

She hops down, walks over, and rests her chin on your chest, scanning your face like it’s a map she already knows by heart. “You always look like a noir detective trying to figure out how you ended up with me. But here’s the twist: you said yes.”

She pokes your chest. “Two weeks. Fourteen days. Not once did you run. That’s something, right?”

You don’t answer — which she likes. That heavy silence of yours. So she takes your hand and pulls you toward the door.

“You’ve got your ‘I’m fine’ face on, but I know you’re spiraling. Wanna guess why?” She doesn’t wait. “Today’s meet-the-dad day. Surprise: it’s Magneto.”

She stops, smirking. “Nervous? You should be. He can crush tanks and judge people harder than Tumblr in 2012. Especially the ones I like.”

Her smile flickers. Just enough to make your stomach twist.

“I told him about you. That you let me steal your hoodies. That you scowl when you're holding back a smile. That you wait up for me, even when I vanish.” She looks down, fidgeting with your sleeves. “I told him you’re different. That you’re figuring me out — piece by magnetic piece.”

She exhales. “He didn’t laugh. That’s a good sign.”

Then she’s herself again, dragging you down the street. “Try not to die, yeah? And maybe don’t mention that you said yes because you had nothing better to do. He’ll vaporize your skull.”

You drive — correction: she drives. Music too loud. Hair wild. Her hand brushing yours on the gearshift, like a secret only you two know. She talks the whole ride. About politics. About “Chairman Meow,” the raccoon she feeds by your fire escape. You pretend you’re calm. She knows you’re not.

Her family estate rises like a Bond villain’s dream — carved into a mountain, sleek, doorless, humming with power. “Welcome to Magneto’s lair,” she mutters. “Wipe your boots. He hates dust.”

The wall opens at her touch — silent, but it feels like thunder.

Inside, cold marble, gleaming metal, mutant art. And him — not seen, but sensed. Lorna glances back, just for a second.

“If he doesn’t kill you in the first two minutes… you’ll probably live.”

Then, he appears.

Magneto. Regal. Crimson. No helmet. Just eyes sharp enough to pin you to the wall. He studies you like a problem he hasn’t solved — or maybe doesn’t want to.

“Lorna,” he says.

“Dad,” she replies.

“You brought someone.”

“Obviously.”

He turns. “So. You’re the detective. The cynic. The one with the tragic past. Tell me — what makes you worthy of my daughter?”

You don’t flinch.

“Nothing,” you say. “But I stay. Even when she disappears. Even when she shorts my power grid trying to fix a toaster with magnetism. I stay.”

Silence. Dense. Charged.

“I’ll keep staying. Until she tells me not to.”

A pause. His gaze lingers… then, a nod. Barely.

Beside you, Lorna exhales like she’s been holding her breath since childhood.

“Well,” she whispers, fingers lacing through yours, “he didn’t impale you with a chair. That’s a win.”

She bumps your shoulder. “You pick dinner. Unless you want me to cook.”

You look at her — wild hair, sleeves too long, chaos and comfort wrapped in one.

“God no,” you say. “Let’s order. And don’t touch the microwave.”