We rode to my stop in silence, after which they followed me through the darkened streets to the quaint pink-and-black house that I called home.

I could see them assessing it as we went up the back stairs to the second level entrance, and tried to ignore the pang that insisted they were probably appalled by the way I lived. They were dragon royalty, and I was… just a girl who ran a bookstore.

I reminded myself stubbornly that, according to them, I was royalty too. Sadly, the thought didn’t make me feel any better—I didn’t exactly live like a princess.

The tiny apartment over the store had a combined kitchen and living room, one bathroom, and two cramped bedrooms. That was it. We hadn’t renovated anything since we moved in, and almost everything in it had come from a thrift store.

But I loved my home, and I was proud of it. I loved the chipped pottery dishes, the sagging couch Chicken used as a scratching post, and the uneven table with mismatched chairs where I ate my breakfast every morning. I was happy with the life I’d built here, especially now that I had friends, regular customers who depended on me, and the sometimes demanding companionship of Chicken and Waffles, who had eventually decided to call a truce and share the house peacefully. I couldn’t leave all this behind just because my family had magically appeared and didn’t want to kill me after all.