By the time the dragon emperor walked into my section of The Celestial Perch — the only place on New Draconis where you could get something that vaguely tasted like Texas barbecue sauce — my neural implant had already buzzed me three times for moving too slow.

The implant bit into the skin behind my left ear with a sharp electric sting. “Order up, Table Seven,” flashed across my wrist display in bright red letters, right under my daily reminder to pay Mom’s medical bill in the Houston General satellite clinic.

I clenched my teeth, shifted three trays of steaming draconite stew into my aching arms, and stepped into the chaos.

The Celestial Perch wasn’t your standard colony diner. The neon sign outside flashed in both English and Draconic: FAMILY-FRIENDLY, HUMAN & DRAGON-APPROVED, NFL GAMES STREAMED LIVE FROM EARTH. Inside, the air smelled like grilled meat, ozone, and just a hint of sulfur from the dragon section’s heat vents. Human pop songs from pre-spaceflight America battled with haunting dragon harmonics over the speakers.

Platforms floated at staggered heights to accommodate both species. Gravity-assist rails circled the room. Temperature zones hummed — warm enough for dragons in one corner, cool enough for humans in another. Reinforced furniture glowed faintly with structural shields, just in case someone in full dragon form forgot their manners and sat down too hard.

“Table Seven wants their meat rare, Sophia,” barked Mr. Harland from behind the counter. His cybernetic eye whirred as it tracked my path, zooming in on the trays in my hands. “And I mean dragon rare, not human rare. Try not to send anyone into a protein shock this time.”

“Yes, sir,” I muttered, nearly tripping as my gravity shoes adjusted to a sudden shift in floor height. Outside, rain hammered against the dome, turning the colony lights into smeared streaks of color. New Draconis — humanity’s grand experiment in coexistence with the Dragon Empire, proudly co-funded by the United States and six other nations, according to the plaque you had to pass to get inside the restaurant.

Most days, it felt less like coexistence and more like a daily challenge: “How Not to Get Eaten at Work.”

My wrist display pinged again. Medication reminder: Mom. I breathed through the tight knot in my chest. Three more hours of this shift. Then I could sprint back to our tiny human-sector apartment and make sure her lungs were still doing their job.

That was when the door’s bioscanner chimed, and the air in the room changed.

You know how sometimes a crowd goes quiet without actually going quiet? Like every conversation keeps going, every fork keeps moving, but underneath it all the molecules themselves are paying attention?

That’s what it felt like when they walked in.

I’d never seen the tall man before, but everything about him whispered power. Even in humanoid form he was big, with broad shoulders and a way of moving that said he could crush the reinforced floor if he forgot to hold back. His dark hair was shot through with silver, not the faded kind, but the metallic streaks dragons sometimes got when their scales shimmered through their glamour. His eyes shifted from gold to molten amber as he scanned the room.

Money, I thought. Real money. Not the kind that trickled into the human sector one underpaid shift at a time. The kind you heard about in Earth newsfeeds, in stories about off-world empires and seven-system rulers.

But it wasn’t him that made my heart lurch.

It was what he was carrying.

Nestled in his arms lay a small dragon, maybe two feet from nose to tail tip. Midnight-blue scales shimmered with silver undertones, like a night sky over the old United States deserts I’d only seen in holos. He should have been perfect — the kind of hatchling you saw on Dragon Empire propaganda feeds.

He wasn’t.

His wings hung at odd angles, joints warped. His back legs didn’t move at all. A specialized mobility harness — all gleaming metal, anti-grav nodes, and adjustable supports — wrapped around his fragile body, humming softly to keep him positioned.

He was beautiful. And he was broken. And something in my chest recognized that combination like a mirror.

Dragons and humans both had plenty of broken after the war.

The tall man angled toward Booth Fifteen — our best dragon booth, with extra shielding and a collapsible platform. It was made for adult dragons in humanoid form or full draconic size, not for this in-between stage. The man tried to adjust the booster platform, muscles tense, jaw flexing as he tried to situate the little dragon close enough to the table.

The hatchling made a small sound, somewhere between a chirp and a whimper.

The perfect mask on the man’s face cracked. Just a little. Enough for exhaustion to leak through.

Before my brain kicked in with all the reasons not to interfere with mysterious powerful dragons, my feet were already moving.

“Let me help,” I said.

He looked up slowly. Those golden eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that told every survival instinct I had to back away, apologize, vanish into the kitchen.

Instead, I side-stepped past his long arms and grabbed a junior stabilizer pad from the wall cabinet. We kept a few for the rare customers who brought hatchlings, though it had been months since anyone used one.

“This’ll support his weight better,” I said, adjusting the anti-gravity field. “Less strain on his spine, less pressure on his legs. See?” I slid the pad under the hatchling, feeling the structure field adjust to his shape. “The standard platform’s calibrated for older kids. What’s his name?”

The man blinked, like he wasn’t used to being addressed so casually by anyone, let alone a human waitress in an American-branded apron.

“Orion,” he said finally. “His name is Orion.”

I smiled at the little dragon. Up close, his eyes were the exact color of old Earth oceans I’d seen in documentary archives — deep, moving blues. “Hey there, Orion. That’s a mighty fine name for a mighty fine dragon.”

His pupils widened. He chirped again, this one higher, happier. One of his wings twitched, the better-shaped one.

“The menu’s not going to work for him,” I said, pulling my scuffed holopad out of my apron pocket. “But our cook — Mr. Harland? He’s got a daughter about Orion’s age. He knows how to make protein mash hatchling-soft, balanced heat, all that. I can ask him to customize something.”

The man kept staring at me. Not hostile. Just… stunned. “That would be acceptable,” he said finally.

I crouched to Orion’s level and dug out my ancient personal holo projector. The casing was cracked, held together with thermal tape and hope, but it still flickered to life when I tapped it. A tiny knight in dented armor appeared above my palm, sword raised against a ridiculous-looking monster with too many eyes.

“Do you like stories, Orion?” I asked.

The hatchling’s eyes went round. His good wing fluttered. A small, delighted squeak rumbled out of his chest.

“This is Sir Galahad,” I whispered, angling the projection toward him. “Spoiler alert: the monster is actually friendly. I’ll be right back with your food, okay? You keep an eye on him for me.”

I told myself I was reassuring Orion, but I was really reassuring the tall man who still hadn’t taken his eyes off me.

Twenty minutes later, I was back with two covered trays. One held a steak — real Earth beef, shipped frozen from a cattle farm in what used to be Kansas. Not the synthetic stuff you served to tourists. Mr. Harland had cooked it himself: seared outside, nearly raw inside. Dragon-rare, just like the order.

The other tray held a bowl of carefully balanced protein mash, faintly steaming, blended smooth, scent adjusted for dragon kids and sensitive stomachs.

“May I?” I asked, holding up a spoon near Orion’s bowl.

The man hesitated, the air between us tightening. Letting a human — a former enemy — feed his disabled hatchling in public was not a small decision.

But Orion was already reaching his good wing toward me, chirping excitedly.

“Be careful,” the man said.

“I will,” I promised.

I’d spent years caring for my mother. You learn things, doing that — how to be gentle without pity, how to move confidently even when you’re terrified of making something worse. I used those hands now, scooping small spoonfuls, letting Orion sniff each one before guiding it to his mouth.

He ate eagerly, making soft, rumbling sounds of contentment that vibrated against my palm when I steadied his jaw. I kept up a steady stream of chatter.

“You know, I heard there’s a dragon on Kepler Station who can juggle seven asteroids at once,” I told him solemnly. “Seven. I can barely juggle my work schedule.”

Orion giggled — actually giggled. It sounded like glass wind chimes in a warm breeze. His father watched every motion, every stroke of the cloth when a drip of mash slid down Orion’s scales and I wiped it away like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“You have experience with hatchlings,” the man said. It wasn’t a question.

“Not really,” I admitted. “But I’ve got experience taking care of people who need help. Sometimes that’s enough.”

Behind us, a group of dragon businessmen in tailored human suits had gone quiet. I caught the edge of their conversation: disgraceful… letting a human touch a hatchling…

The man’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing. He just kept watching me.

When they were finished, I brought the bill over. Just one meal, not two.

He looked at the receipt, then at me. “You’ve only charged for mine.”

“Orion’s is on the house,” I lied smoothly. “Mr. Harland has a policy. First-time hatchling customers eat free.”

Mr. Harland had no such policy. I’d cover the cost from my tips and live with the extra shift I’d have to pick up.

The man slid a credit chip across the table. It glowed with Draconite encryption, the kind usually used by high-level officials. I swiped it across the scanner, eyes tracking the display.

And almost dropped it.

He’d left a thousand-credit tip.

That was three months of Mom’s medication. Three months without wondering if the Houston clinic would cut her off and send us a polite message about “alternative options” that didn’t exist.

“Sir, I can’t,” I blurted, pushing the chip toward him. My hands were shaking. “This is too much.”

“You earned it,” he said simply.

“No. I mean—” My throat tightened. “I’m not being kind to you for money. I’m doing it because Orion deserves kindness. You both do. I can’t take that.”

For a second, something flickered in his eyes. Then he reached into his pocket and produced a different chip, smaller, unmarked. He pressed it into my palm, his fingers warm against my skin.

“My private communication code,” he said. “If you ever need anything.”

And just like that, he turned and left, carrying his son carefully against his chest.

I stood there, alone in the middle of my section, clutching a chip that probably connected to one of the most powerful beings in seven systems.

Later, I would learn his name. Emperor Theren Goldwing. Ruler of the Dragon Empire, recognized even in American newsfeeds that played between sports highlights and political scandals back on Earth.

That night, I gave Mom her meds in our tiny Level Seven apartment — gravity set to Earth-normal, no sulfur in the air, water still tasting faintly of metal from the cheap recycler. She sat in her worn chair, Houston Astros hoodie pulled tight around her thin shoulders, oxygen filters humming softly.

“You’re thinking too loud,” she said, eyes narrowing. “What happened today?”

So I told her. About the emperor, his son, the thousand credits I refused, and the anonymous chip burning a hole in my pocket.

She laughed, the sound breaking into a ragged cough. I rushed for her inhaler, waiting for the wheeze to ease back into steady breath.

“My daughter,” she rasped when she could speak. “Too proud for her own good.”

Three days later, they came back.

Same booth. Same time. This time I had the junior stabilizer ready before they even sat down. Orion squeaked when he saw me, his whole body vibrating in his harness.

“Miss Sophia!” he said — clear, high Draconic-tinged English. It was the first time I’d heard him speak.

Dragons learned languages faster than humans. Disabled hatchlings sometimes struggled. Orion, apparently, hadn’t gotten that memo.

“Hey there, little star,” I said, grinning as I adjusted his supports and set his bowl down. “How’ve you been?”

“Father took me flying,” he announced proudly. “In the ship. We saw three nebulas.”

“Three whole nebulas? Show-off,” I teased. “I’m still impressed when I make it through the day without dropping a tray.”

While Orion ate, I risked a low-voiced question. “Rough week?” I asked Theren quietly, glancing at the subtle shimmer of scales around his temples — a classic dragon stress tell.

“The council is questioning my fitness to rule,” he said, like he was commenting on the weather. “They consider a disabled heir a sign of weakness.”

My chest flashed hot with anger. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve heard in a long time. And I work in customer service.”

His mouth twitched. “You have a very direct way of speaking.”

“Occupational hazard. You spend enough time carrying plates for people, you stop being impressed by titles.” I hesitated. “I’m Sophia Reeves, by the way.”

He considered that. “Have you always been a waitress, Miss Reeves?”

There was nothing wrong with being a waitress. Still, the question stung.

“I was in nursing school,” I said. “Back in the North American sector, before the peace treaty let us immigrate here. Then Mom’s old war injuries caught up with her. Lung scarring. The treatments out here aren’t cheap. So… here I am.”

“And your father?”

“Didn’t make it home,” I said. “He died in the war. That’s enough detail.”

“On which side?” Theren asked.

I shrugged. “Does it matter? Dead is dead.”

Orion had finished eating and was watching us with those huge ocean eyes. “Miss Sophia, are you sad?” he asked quietly.

“No, little star,” I said, forcing a smile. “Just remembering. Your father says remembering is important, right?”

“Yes,” Orion said solemnly. “Even when it hurts.”

“Then he’s a smart dragon,” I said.

Over the next few weeks, they became regulars. Every three days. Booth Fifteen. Same time, like clockwork.

I learned that Theren was a widower. His mate had been killed in an “attack” two years earlier — I noticed how he avoided the word that would make every American news algorithm flag the story and demonetize it. I learned that the same incident had damaged Orion’s egg, interfering with his development. That Theren had twenty-seven estates across the empire but spent most of his time here because New Draconis had the best medical facilities.

He learned about me. About our apartment with the flickering heater and off-brand American sitcom reruns playing on loop. About my abandoned nursing degree. About Mom’s rough nights, when the Houston clinic’s meds weren’t quite enough.

“Why do you refuse my tips?” he asked one day, after I’d once again adjusted the bill.

“Because I’m not here to sell kindness,” I said. “I’m here because Orion deserves someone who treats him like more than a political problem. And I can sleep at night if I know I didn’t put a price tag on that.”

His gaze held mine for a long, strange moment. “You are very unusual, Sophia Reeves.”

“That’s one way to put it,” I said.

Then, one afternoon, they didn’t show up.

My whole shift felt off-kilter. I tried not to check the door every five minutes, not to flinch every time the bioscanner chimed. Nothing. At closing time, I pulled up the local feeds. Trade disputes. A minor fire in the American embassy sector. Dragon gossip. No mention of the emperor. No mention of Orion.

Two days later, my wristcom buzzed with an emergency alert from an unmarked code.

Two words.

Need help.

The coordinates attached to the message pointed straight to the dragon sector, Level One. Heavy gravity. Steel structures. Security protocols that made the American military bases I’d studied in history classes look lax.

The guards at the gate scanned me once, saw something in their data, and let me through without a word.

I found them in a medical suite that made the Houston clinic look like a countryside first-aid tent. Orion lay in a diagnostic cradle, sensors threaded over his scales. His breathing was harsh, too fast. His colors were wrong — flushed too bright along the ridges.

Theren was in full dragon form, curled around the bed. Gold and bronze, massive and terrible and beautiful. His head alone was bigger than my entire body. When his eyes found me, the room vibrated with his voice.

“It’s a reaction to his new treatment,” his mind-voice said, sounding frayed. “The doctors want to stop. But it’s our best chance at improving his movement.”

I slid my hands over the controls, scanning readouts. I hadn’t finished nursing school, but I knew vital signs when I saw them.

“His temperature’s too high,” I said. “Dragons run hot, sure, but this is dangerous.”

“The doctors—”

“Are wrong,” I snapped. “Look at his scales. Edges lifting? That’s heat stress. His body’s trying to shed the burn, but he can’t regulate it fast enough.”

Theren’s eyes narrowed. “What do you suggest?”

“You have ice-breath, right?” My voice shook, but I didn’t let myself back down. “You need to cool him. Slowly. Controlled. Not enough to shock his system, just enough to help him stabilize.”

“I could hurt him,” Theren said, and for the first time since I’d met him, I heard pure fear.

“You’re his father,” I said. “You know exactly how much he can take. Just… trust yourself. Trust him. Trust me.”

For a heartbeat, I thought he’d refuse. Then the massive head lifted. Frost gathered at the corners of his mouth. A stream of shimmering, crystallized air flowed out — precise and focused, washing over Orion in a steady, icy breath.

Orion’s scale patterns started to normalize almost immediately. His breathing slowed, stabilizing.

“That’s it,” I said, watching the monitor. “Keep going. Right there.”

We stayed like that for hours. Theren breathing ice in measured bursts, me tweaking equipment, adjusting levels, talking to Orion in a steady, soft voice even when his eyes stayed closed.

When he finally blinked awake, his voice was hoarse but steady. “Miss Sophia,” he whispered. “Did you bring Sir Galahad?”

I laughed, relief crashing over me so hard my knees almost gave out. I flicked on my old holo projector and let the tiny knight appear beside his bed.

“Of course, little star,” I said. “He wouldn’t miss this.”

Later, when Orion was sleeping and the machines purred contentedly instead of screaming warning colors, Theren lowered his head until his golden eyes were level with mine.

“The doctors said he would not survive the night,” he said.

“Doctors don’t know everything,” I said tiredly. “Sometimes you just need someone who cares enough to pay attention.”

“Why did you come?” he asked. “You had no obligation.”

“You asked for help,” I said simply. “That’s enough for me.”

The very next day, he appeared at The Celestial Perch in humanoid form, waited until my shift ended, then followed me to Booth Fifteen like we were just two tired regulars.

“I have a proposition,” he said.

“Those words are never followed by something simple,” I muttered, sliding into the booth.

He didn’t smile. He just watched me, eyes steady. “I want you to be Orion’s full-time caregiver.”

I choked on my coffee. “I’m not qualified.”

“You saved his life.”

“I got lucky.”

“No.” His voice was firm. “You saw what the med team missed because you were looking at Orion, not at a list of symptoms. I’ll fund your nursing degree. All of it. Human medicine. Dragon physiology. You’ll have access to the best instructors in the system. I’ll pay you a salary that covers your mother’s treatments. In return, you live in the imperial residence and care for my son.”

“That’s… insane.”

“That’s practical,” he corrected. “Orion responds to you in a way he does not with anyone else.”

“And the council?” I asked. “The empire? A human caring for the imperial heir? On a colony where the American newsfeeds already call this place ‘the most explosive diplomatic experiment since the moon landing’?”

“I will deal with the council,” he said. “You deal with Orion.”

“I need to think,” I said, heart pounding. “I have Mom to consider.”

“Take the time you need,” he said. But hope had already slipped into his voice.

That night, I told Mom everything. She listened quietly, fingers tracing the faded logo on her hoodie: UNIVERSITY OF TEXAS, peeling at the edges.

“You already know what you’re going to do,” she said when I finished.

“I really don’t.”

“You’ve never been able to walk away from someone who needs help,” she said softly. “It’s your blessing and your curse.” She squeezed my hand. “You’ve put your life on hold for me, baby. I didn’t survive a war so you could survive the peace. I want to see you live.”

Two days later, I moved into the imperial residence.

My quarters alone were bigger than our entire old apartment. The medical suite where Orion slept had equipment I’d only seen in textbooks and Earth documentaries. Holographic walls showed rotating views from different places on Earth — Manhattan skyline at dusk, Grand Canyon at sunrise, a Florida shoreline before the sea levels rose.

The staff stared at me — a human in a simple uniform walking the same halls that had seen empresses and generals. Some hid their disapproval better than others.

A dragon older than most buildings I’d lived in, Mistress Goldscale, ran the household. She preferred humanoid form, with careful lines of gold around her eyes and a spine so straight it could serve as a ruler. At first, her gaze felt like an x-ray. But when she saw the way Orion lit up every time I entered a room — his whole body buzzing, his voice calling, “Miss Sophia, look!” — something softened.

He showed me how he’d learned to pump his good wing just right to help his harness move. It was clumsy, but it was progress.

“That’s incredible, little star,” I told him. “Keep this up and we’re going to have to put speed limits in the hallways.”

Days settled into a new rhythm. Mornings were therapy — stretching sessions turned into games, exercises disguised as quests. Afternoons, I sat in on his lessons, learning Dragon Empire history and law alongside him, hearing about human–dragon battles I’d grown up on from the other side’s perspective.

Evenings were mine. Theren kept his promise and enrolled me in the best nursing program on the colony: human, dragon, interspecies care. I studied until my eyes burned. I wasn’t wasting this chance.

Some staff still whispered when they thought I couldn’t hear.

“The human thinks she’s special.”

“The emperor has lost his mind.”

“What happens when the council finds out?”

We didn’t have to wait long to find out.

Three weeks later, five dragons in full ceremonial armor arrived.

Their leader, a massive red dragon whose scales looked like smoldering coals, didn’t spare me a glance. “Emperor Theren,” his voice boomed. “The council demands an explanation.”

Theren appeared in full dragon form, coiling protectively around Orion’s therapy platform. He managed to look both majestic and profoundly irritated.

“An explanation for what?” he asked.

“For this.” The red dragon’s gaze finally landed on me. “You have placed the imperial heir in the care of a human.”

“I have placed my son in the care of the most capable person for the task,” Theren said. “She has done more for him in three weeks than ten certified caregivers did in a year.”

“She is not even fully credentialed,” the red dragon snapped. “And she is a former enemy subject.”

“I am a waitress from a United States–sponsored sector who didn’t fire a single shot in your war,” I said before I could stop myself. “Let’s not be dramatic.”

The room went silent.

“A hatchling does not choose his companions,” the red dragon said coldly.

“This one does,” Theren replied, voice low and dangerous. “Sophia stays.”

“Then you force our claw,” Scorchwing — I finally remembered his name from news feeds — hissed. “The council will vote on your fitness to rule.”

“Then vote,” Theren said. “But understand this: the day you try to tear my son away from the one person who sees him as more than a symbol is the day you remember why I was called Goldwing the Terrible during the war.”

The council left. The threat stayed.

I found Theren later in his study, in humanoid form, staring at a holo-map of Earth and Dragon territories, lights marking trade routes between New York, Los Angeles, New Draconis, and a hundred other worlds.

“You should let me go,” I said. “It’s not worth losing your throne over me.”

“The throne is meaningless if I can’t protect my son,” he said quietly. “The council fears change. They fear peace might mean more than just not shooting at each other.”

He looked at me. Really looked at me. “Do you know why I truly want you here?”

“Because Orion likes me?” I said.

“Because you see him as Orion,” he said. “Not as a damaged heir. Not as a fragile symbol. Just as a little dragon who loves stories and hates bitter medicine.”

Heat crawled up my neck. “Your taste in coffee is still terrible,” I said, because emotions made me clumsy. “Draconite stimulant brew tastes like burned battery acid.”

“You’re wrong,” he said, and smiled. “But I appreciate your commitment to being wrong.”

The weeks turned into months.

Orion got stronger. Not miraculously. Not magically. Just slowly, stubbornly, inch by inch.

He learned to maneuver his harness around corners without crashing. His good wing grew strong. He mastered a partial transformation, shifting his tail to humanoid form for a whole thirty seconds one night before collapsing into giggles.

I grew too. I passed exams. I learned to read dragon vitals at a glance. I became the first human on New Draconis certified in interspecies pediatric care, officially recognized in both the Dragon Empire registry and the U.S. interstellar medical database.

Mom moved into a better apartment. Real heating. Clean water. Houston General sent us cheerful updates about her improving lung function.

And Theren… became my friend.

We sat together on quiet nights after Orion fell asleep, sharing stories. He told me about ancient dragon rites. I told him about Fourth of July fireworks over the Washington Monument, the way they used to be before launchpads replaced monuments, from videos my father had loved.

“I never thought I’d trust a human,” he said once, watching Orion snore softly in his harness. “Not like this.”

“I never thought I’d argue with a dragon emperor about whether Earth coffee beats stimulant brew,” I said. “Yet here we are. For the record, Earth wins.”

He laughed — a warm, surprised laugh I realized I wanted to hear again.

The council voted. Seven to keep him as emperor, five against. It was closer than anyone liked. Scorchwing left the colony in a fury, but not before he cornered me in the medical wing.

“This isn’t over, human,” he said.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I replied, adjusting Orion’s harness without even glancing at him. “You know where to find me.”

Two weeks later, someone tried to poison Orion’s food.

I caught it because paranoia had become a habit. I ran everything through a molecular scanner before it got near him. The results flashed red, the compound labeled with a warning: hazardous interaction with dragon digestion. It would have ended his life in minutes.

Theren’s rage shook the residence. He shifted into full dragon form and stormed through the halls, roaring. The foundation trembled. Staff scattered.

It took Orion and me together to stop him.

“Father,” Orion said, voice small but steady as he hovered in his harness inches from Theren’s massive head. “You’re scaring everyone. Miss Sophia protected me. I’m safe.”

Theren’s golden eyes swung toward me. “How did you know?” he demanded.

“I didn’t,” I said honestly. “I just… had a feeling. My Mom used to say I had good instincts. Comes from growing up near war zones and American newsfeeds that always broke the bad stories first.”

The would-be assassin turned out to be a radical loyalist, convinced a disabled heir would weaken the empire’s image. During questioning, he said something that chilled me more than the poison ever could.

“The human won’t always be there,” he sneered.

That night, Theren came to my quarters. He looked worn down, older than I’d ever seen him.

“I need to send you away,” he said, without preamble. “You and Orion. There’s a secure research station in the outer ring. He can continue his treatments there. You’ll be safe.”

“You want to hide us,” I said.

“I want to keep you alive,” he snapped. “Both of you.”

“And you?” I demanded. “You stay here? Alone? Fighting off council politics and radicals while your son thinks you sent him away?”

“That is my job.”

“Your job is to be his father,” I shot back. “My job is to take care of him. We are a team. You, me, Orion. You don’t get to break up the team because you’re scared.”

“Sophia—”

“No,” I said. “I will not let some bitter extremist control our lives. Difficult doesn’t mean impossible. It just means trying harder. You taught me that when you stepped foot in a human-sector diner on a rainy Wednesday and handed a waitress your entire world.”

For a long moment, he just stared at me.

Then, suddenly, he crossed the room in three strides and pulled me into his arms.

It was the first time we’d touched like that. He was warmer than any human, heartbeat steady and strong against my cheek.

“I can’t lose you,” he whispered. “Either of you.”

“You won’t,” I whispered back. “I promise.”

The next morning, Orion announced that he wanted to go to school.

“School?” Theren and I said in unison.

“Other hatchlings go,” Orion said stubbornly. “I want to go too.”

“School may be difficult with your mobility needs,” Theren began carefully.

“Miss Sophia says difficult doesn’t mean impossible,” Orion said. “She says it just means we try harder.”

Theren looked at me. I shrugged. “He’s not wrong.”

A month later, Orion rolled into his first day of class in an inclusive academy — the first of its kind in the colony, quietly co-funded by the Dragon Empire and a coalition of Earth governments that included the U.S. Department of Education’s off-world branch. Humans in sponsored programs would follow years later. For now, it was dragons only, and even that had taken a political miracle.

We learned quickly that kids are the same everywhere. Species, planets, histories — none of it mattered when it came to cruelty.

On the second day, a hatchling named Blazeclaw snickered at Orion’s harness. “Broken wings,” he said. “Broken dragon.”

Orion came home in tears. “Maybe I shouldn’t go back,” he whispered. “Maybe I should stay here.”

I knelt in front of him. “Do you remember Sir Galahad?” I asked. “Remember what made him special?”

“He was brave,” Orion sniffled.

“He was different,” I corrected gently. “His sword was crooked. His armor was dented. He didn’t look like the storybook heroes. But he was the one who befriended the misunderstood monster. Because he understood what it felt like not to fit.”

“I’m not a knight,” Orion said.

“You’re better,” I said. “You’re Orion Goldwing. Tomorrow, you’re going to go back to that school and show them ‘different’ does not mean ‘less.’”

“Will you come?” he asked.

“Always, little star.”

The next day, I did go. When Blazeclaw started in again, I did something no caregiver handbook would ever recommend.

I challenged him to a race.

“Your perfect wings,” I said lightly, “against Orion’s harness and sheer determination. One lap around the training field.”

Blazeclaw couldn’t resist. Halfway through, his flight path carried him past an open window where the older students were practicing elaborate courtship displays — glittering wings, choreographed spirals, the kind of thing that would distract any young dragon.

He crashed into a wall.

Orion kept going. Steady. Focused. Harness humming. He crossed the finish line to a chorus of stunned cheers.

“You rigged that race,” Theren said that night, amusement in his eyes.

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” I said primly.

“You are devious.”

“I prefer ‘strategic,’” I said.

Time kept moving. Orion got stronger. I graduated top of my class, officially certified as a pediatric nurse for both human and dragon children. Mom sat in the front row at my ceremony, breathing easily, wearing a borrowed dress and her old Houston Astros cap like a crown.

Theren and Orion sat beside her, dragon emperor and imperial heir, watching me with identical proud expressions.

Six months later, after a council hearing where I was accused (politely, of course) of exerting “undue influence” over the imperial family and asked whether I would “kill for the hatchling” and “what the emperor meant to me,” after I answered honestly — yes, I would lay down my life for Orion; and as for Theren, he was a father who loved his son more than power — something shifted.

An elderly dragon descended from the council circle and hovered before me. Her scales were pale silver, almost white. Her presence filled the air.

“You would die for the hatchling?” she repeated.

“Yes,” I said, voice steady.

“You would fight for him?”

“If necessary,” I said.

“And my grandson,” she said, glancing at Theren. “What is he to you?”

I looked at him — at the dragon who had walked into my section of an American-branded diner on a rainy day and handed me his heart in the shape of a fragile, brilliant hatchling.

“He’s a father who loves his son,” I said. “Everything else is secondary.”

Silence stretched.

Then the old dragon smiled, slow and sharp. “I approve,” she said. “The human sees clearly. The hatchling thrives. My grandson remembers how to smile. The human stays.”

That night, after the small family celebration, after Orion finally fell asleep mid-story with Sir Galahad frozen mid-swing above his bed, Theren pulled me into a quiet corridor overlooking the colony dome. You could see Earth in the sky from there, a bright, distant star that still felt like home.

“Thank you,” he said. “For what you said. To the council. To my grandmother.”

“I meant every word,” I said.

“I have something I need to tell you,” he said, hands flexing at his sides. Emperor Theren Goldwing, who had stared down war fleets, looked nervous.

“I love you,” he said simply. “I’ve loved you since the day you refused my tip. Since the day you told me my son deserved kindness with no price tag. Since the night you ordered me to breathe ice on my own child and didn’t flinch.”

My heart did a strange, painful flip. “You’re the most impossible man I’ve ever met,” I said. “And I love you too.”

I leaned in and kissed him.

It was ridiculous and complicated and absolutely right.

A small voice behind us said, “Does this mean Miss Sophia is going to be my mother?”

We turned. Orion hovered in his harness, eyes huge.

“That’s… not exactly how it works,” I started.

“But I want you to be my mother,” he said, cutting me off. “You take care of me. You tell me stories. You make Father laugh. That’s what mothers do, right?”

My throat closed. “If you want me to be your mother,” I said, “then that’s who I’ll be.”

He flew right into my arms, harness whirring, scales warm against my cheek.

“Mother,” he said carefully. “I like that.”

A year later, Theren and I were married in a ceremony broadcast all the way back to Earth — American late-night hosts turned it into punchlines and love stories in equal measure. The first official union between a dragon emperor and a human. Some people cheered. Some ranted in comment sections. Algorithms everywhere went wild.

Scorchwing boycotted. Most of the galaxy watched.

But the part that mattered most happened afterward, in a quiet room, when Orion — who had been practicing in secret for weeks — managed his first full transformation.

It lasted only seconds. His humanoid form was imperfect: one arm smaller, legs unsteady. But he did it. He did it.

“Look, Mother!” he cried as he wobbled and fell into my arms. “I’m like you!”

“You’re perfect, little star,” I whispered, holding him close. “Absolutely perfect.”

Five years later, I stood in the great chamber again, this time as imperial consort, watching Orion address the council. He was twelve now. He still used mobility support. He still had days when his body wouldn’t cooperate.

But he stood there — tall as he could, voice clear, eyes steady — and proposed integration schools where human and dragon children would learn side by side across the empire.

“We are not enemies,” he said. “We were never meant to be. We were strangers who were afraid to talk.”

He looked at me and at Theren.

“I learned from my mother, who was born human but has the heart of a dragon,” he said. “And from my father, who was born a dragon but learned how to love with human softness. If they can build a bridge between worlds, so can we.”

The council voted unanimously in favor.

That night, we watched Orion play with his little sister — a perfectly healthy hatchling who thought it was normal that her father was a dragon emperor and her mother was a human from a U.S.-sponsored sector who still made the best Earth-style pancakes in the palace.

“Do you ever regret it?” Theren asked quietly, his arm around my shoulders.

“Regret what?” I asked.

“That day,” he said. “When you refused my tip and changed everything.”

“Never,” I said. “Though sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I’d just taken the money and walked away.”

“You wouldn’t have,” he said. “It’s not who you are.”

“No,” I agreed. “It’s not.”

“Mother!” Orion called from across the room. “Tell Sarah the story about Sir Galahad again.”

Sarah — our daughter — groaned. “We’ve heard it a million times.”

“It’s a good story,” Orion insisted. “And Mother tells it best.”

I looked at them — my impossible family — and laughed.

“All right,” I said. “But this time, Sir Galahad gets a dragon friend from New Draconis. And maybe they stop a war over dinner.”

As I started the story, weaving new adventures around an old knight, the moons of New Draconis rose outside our window. Down in the colony streets, humans and dragons moved side by side under the glow of neon written in both English and Draconic. A kid in a Houston Rockets jersey held hands with a young dragon in a school uniform as they crossed a floating walkway.

It wasn’t perfect. There were still arguments, still fear, still people who didn’t want to share power or space or stories.

But in our home, a human child curled up against her dragon brother while their dragon father hummed an old Earth lullaby under his breath. I leaned into his warmth and thought about that rainy shift so many years ago, the one where a tired American-born waitress refused a tip and reached out to steady a little dragon instead.

Sometimes the smallest choice changes everything.

Sometimes kindness is its own reward.

And sometimes — just sometimes — a waitress and an emperor meet in a US-sponsored diner as enemies on paper and walk out as the beginning of something that will rewrite two worlds.

“Ever after?” Sarah asked sleepily when the story ended.

“Not yet,” I said, kissing her forehead. “They lived happily right now. The ever after part… we’re still writing.”

Theren’s hand found mine. Orion’s harness hummed softly in the corner, updated and upgraded, designed partly by me. Outside, the neon sign of The Celestial Perch flickered in the distance — still open twenty-four seven, still serving anyone willing to sit at the same table.

Difficult didn’t mean impossible.

It just meant we would keep trying.