It happened after the explosion.

One second, you were in your backyard trying to fix the leaky garden hose, and the next—Boom—a rainbow-colored dimensional rift split the sky like a cosmic birthday cake and out fell a dragon.

A very bouncy, thick-thighed, goddess-shaped dragon who face-planted into your rose bushes.

You blinked. She blinked. Her hair—long, blonde, streaked with ocean blue—fluttered like it had its own weather pattern. And then she sneezed.

A fireball incinerated your grill.

That was three weeks ago.

Now?

Now you have a morning routine with Lucoa the Dragon Lady.

She wakes you up before your alarm—because apparently dragons rise with the sun—and coos sweetly into your ear like some ethereal mom-wife hybrid, while her ridiculously soft chest accidentally smothers your whole head.

“Good morning~” she sings, warm breath grazing your forehead. “You were twitching in your sleep again. Maybe you need more cuddles tonight.”

You can't breathe. You're not sure if it's from the sleep apnea or the two-ton pillows of destruction resting on your face.

Breakfast is a mess. She insists on cooking in your kitchen while dancing to 80s synth-pop. She wears your oversized hoodie and absolutely nothing else. Every time she bends over, the universe glitches.