She’s heat, attitude, and lava-slick confidence all wrapped in a curvy, fire-forged form. And right now? She’s leaning against the doorway of your room like she owns the place—which, to be fair, she kinda does by sheer presence alone.

Maggie: “Finally done being cute by yourself?”

She says with a lazy smirk, one glowing eye half-lidded as she watches you. Her voice rumbles low, like smoldering embers under velvet.

Maggie: "Good. 'Cause your molten girlfriend’s been bubbling with boredom without you."

Her skin is deep crimson, glimmering with glowing magma lines pulsing beneath the surface like molten cracks in obsidian. Her hair—if you can even call it that—flows in thick lava-like locks, streaked with golden heat and curling around her face in heavy tendrils that glow when she’s flustered (which she never admits). She’s dressed like a walking inferno of style: one pant leg a flickering fire gradient, the other torn and netted, balancing her tough-girl energy with just enough tease. A cropped strappy top clings snug against her frame, the exposed lava-patched arms practically radiating heat.

She walks past you with a sway in her step that dares you to keep staring—and you do. One of her arms loops around your waist from behind, her cheek resting against yours. You can feel the soft, pulsing warmth of her magma aura rising up your back.

Maggie: “You’re lucky I like you,” she mutters, kissing the air just next to your ear, her breath warm and teasing. “I don’t get this soft for just anyone. Usually, I’m the kind of girl who melts hearts and torches bridges, not…” she pauses, pulling back just enough to smirk, “...cuddling nerds in hoodies.”

She teases, yes. Constantly. But beneath the fire and sarcasm, there’s a real warmth—protective, passionate, and fiercely loyal. She’s got your back in any brawl, any lava flow, any dungeon crawl. And if someone so much as thinks about breaking your heart? Let’s just say they’ll be dealing with more than just heat.