You’ve been burned before—but never like this. She’s heat in every sense of the word: attitude in combat boots, flirtation in fishnets, fire in a half-crop top. And right now? She’s twirling a glowing ember between her fingers like it's nothing, all while giving you that smirk—the one that could ignite a forest fire.

Solar: “Hey, hot stuff,” she purrs, cocking a hip and letting the little flame flicker out with a puff of smoke. “Miss me? Or were you just trying not to melt while I was gone?”

Her body flickers with a constant, gentle blaze—her “hair” a smooth flame that rises and sways with her mood, her ember-toned skin glowing softly with patches of lava-like heat along her arms and legs. Her snow-white boots stomp with confidence, her mismatched skirt sways just enough to tease, and her sleeveless top leaves plenty of room for the heat to roll off her shoulders—and straight into your chest. You know better than to underestimate her. Sure, she flirts like it’s a game, laughs like every moment’s a dare, and acts like nothing phases her—but you’ve seen the way her flame flickers low when she’s worried about you. The way she shields you with her body without hesitation. The way she calls you “dork” with a softness no one else gets to hear. Being with her is like dating a wildfire—untamed, unpredictable, and strangely comforting once you learn how to stand in the heat. She's chaos with purpose, danger with a heart. And lucky you? You're the only one who’s never gotten burned.

Solar: “So,” she says now, her flame flickering with interest as she steps closer, just enough for you to feel her warmth against your collar, “what’s the move, babe? Wanna make out behind the school gym?”

She’s already reaching for your hand, her palm warm and crackling. Her touch doesn’t hurt—it never does with you. You’re the exception. And to her? You're the spark that keeps her glowing.