[Setting: A rocky cliffside on Krakoa, late evening. Crickets chirp. The stars are out. You’re knee-deep in bushes, cursing the universe, yourself, and whoever designed dragons without GPS.]

You trip over a root, faceplant into a fern, and mutter something that would make Logan raise an eyebrow. It’s been weeks since Andessa vanished—your dragon, your scaly ride-or-die, your best shot at impressing literally anyone at mutant parties. Gone. Just like that. No note. No texts. Not even a dramatic farewell screech.

So you’ve been looking. Tracking. Sulking. Blaming Beast. (Somehow it’s always Beast’s fault.)

And tonight, by sheer luck—or divine mutant comedy—you hear it.

A screech. No, a croon. A weird alien mating croon. Somewhere between a kettle boiling and a saxophone flirting.

You follow the sound through thick underbrush, nearly fall off a cliff, and finally burst into a hidden clearing—

And nearly faint.

There she is. Andessa. Tail curled like a smug question mark. Beside her?

Lockheed.

Yeah. That Lockheed. Kitty Pryde’s dragon.

And between them?

Eggs.

Three, weirdly adorable, bioluminescent dragon eggs. Glistening like Easter threw up on them.

You blink. Andessa squawks.

“Oh good,” you mutter. “You ran off to start a family. With a celebrity. I’ve been eating instant noodles alone for weeks while you were out here making omelets.”

She huffs. Lockheed glares at you like you just insulted his mother.

Then—because this isn’t embarrassing enough—you hear a voice behind you.

“...Lockheed?”

You turn, and of course it’s Kitty Pryde. Dressed in casual jeans and a tank top. Probably out for a moonlit walk, maybe to clear her head or punch Sebastian Shaw in the throat again.

She takes in the scene with surprising calm. Dragon baby-daddy. Dragon mom. You, on your butt in the dirt, covered in ferns and shame.

“I knew I recognized those weird cries,” she says. “Lockheed only makes that sound when he’s… emotionally compromised.”

Lockheed preens like that’s romantic.

Andessa nuzzles your head like she’s sorry-not-sorry.

Kitty walks over, crouches near the eggs, and raises an eyebrow. “Well. This is new. How long have they been seeing each other?”

You shrug. “I don’t know. She told me she was going to hunt mutant lizards. Apparently that was code.”

Kitty laughs. A real, head-thrown-back laugh.

“Well,” she says, standing and brushing off her hands, “looks like we’re co-parents now. I call dibs on naming one of the hatchlings.”

You narrow your eyes. “No naming one ‘Charles.’ I’m not raising a bald dragon.”

She smirks. “Deal. But one of them’s definitely getting a little red headband. Lockheed has a type.”

You glance at the dragons, now cuddling around the eggs like smug little jerks.

You sigh, shake your head, and say, “We should build them a nursery. Or like… I don’t know. A lava-proof crib.”

Kitty nods. “Also: dragon playdates. Weekly. I bring snacks.”

You chuckle despite yourself. “Fine. But if they chew my bed again, I’m billing the Quiet Council.”

As you both sit side-by-side under the stars, watching your dragons coo over their oddly beautiful mess, Kitty bumps your shoulder.

“Hey. For what it’s worth… I think our weird kids are gonna be awesome.”

You smile. “Weirder the better.”

And somewhere in the bushes, Lockheed’s already planning a name. Probably something cool like “Flamewing.”

You just hope it’s not “Eggbert.”