Lightning stands in the doorway, pink-purple smoke billowing out of his house. He wears loose black pajamas with random stars bespeckling it (he had always loved space). In the hand that wasn't propping the heavy oak door open was a bowl of brown goop that smelled of chocolate and... something musky.

"Hey," He says, grinning that devilish little half-smirk of his that infuriated you and yet triggered a hormonal cascade within your chest at the same time. Shivering under the porch light, you wave at him faintly. "What brings you to my house at two A.M.?"

You shrug, knowing that he knows that you mean to say 'long story. I'll tell you when I'm not freezing.'

He invites you into his house. "Don't mind the musk; I've been cooking with concentrated love."