The moment Greg fled—slamming the door behind him like he’d just escaped a hostage negotiation—I turned to the three supernatural disasters now lounging in my living room like it was their shared Airbnb.

  "Alright," I said, rubbing the bridge of my nose, "that was mortifying."

  Lily, curled in the armchair like a decadent threat to public safety, smirked. “I don’t know, I thought it was kind of fun.” She stretched, her blouse slipping further off her shoulder in a motion so practiced it might as well have been trademarked. “He looked like he’d walked into a very naughty dream.”

  Elly glared daggers into the floor and at everyone in general, no one in particular. “Yes, because the goal here is obviously to turn his entire life into a B-tier reality show called The Bachelor: Supernatural Edition.”

  Euryale, who’d been suspiciously quiet while sipping green juice like a fashion-forward oracle, finally adjusted her sunglasses and said, “The bigger concern is that whatever was stalking you at the office almost certainly knows where you live now. Which means your home is compromised. Unless you have a second apartment under a fake name, congratulations: we live here now.”

  That yanked my attention back from spiraling embarrassment to existential dread.

  "Wait—we’re living here together?" I repeated, narrowing my eyes. "Since when is this a we thing?"

  Elly turned to me slowly. “Since I had to claim you like a territorial housecat just to keep Miss Touch-Me-and-Die over there from trying to imprint on you.”

  Lily gasped dramatically. “That is slander. I do not imprint. I bond. It's romantic.”

  They way she said ‘bond’ made me tighten a little below the belt and gave me some bad ideas.

  Euryale rolled her eyes. “It’s a magical soul tether, not a mixtape.”

  “One time,” Lily muttered.

  I blinked. “Okay, backup. What does ‘claiming’ mean? And why did no one ask me before it happened?”

  Elly folded her arms. “Because if we waited for your consent, you’d be dead. Or worse, enchanted into somebody’s creepy fae boyfriend who lives in a mushroom commune and doesn’t remember his Social Security number.”

  “…That’s a thing?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  Euryale set her juice down carefully. “Claiming someone is the Alterkind equivalent of a magical Dibs. It’s like planting a little flag saying, ‘This one’s under my protection. Touch him, and I file a magical restraining order.’ It’s not a love spell. It’s more like a warding contract.”

  “A contract?”

  “It’s more formal in some cultures,” Elly said. “Among the Hidden, it’s basically a master-ward clause. You’re not owned, but you're definitely... ‘off the market.’”

  “Which is great,” Lily said cheerfully. “Because Nulls who aren’t claimed tend to get hunted, kidnapped, or accidentally married in fae courts by week three.”

  “Oh, excellent,” I said, dragging my hands down my face. “So, I’m someone’s property now.”

  “You’re protected property,” Elly corrected, in that tone people use when telling toddlers that band-aids make boo-boos go away.

  “I didn’t sign up for this.”

  “You never sign up for this,” Euryale said. “That’s sort of the point. You’re a Null. You destabilize the supernatural status quo just by existing. Think of yourself as the magical equivalent of a power vacuum. And we all know what nature does with those.”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Okay. Even if I buy all that, that doesn’t explain why you’re all here, in my apartment, right now. Together. After all, you claimed me.”

  Elly hesitated. “I... may have called in backup.”

  Lily looked far too pleased. “You could say we formed a support group.”

  “And I brought quiche,” Euryale added helpfully.

  “I don’t want a support group,” I snapped. “I want a quiet life, maybe with tacos and no eldritch weirdos barging into my apartment uninvited.”

  Lily winked. “You say that, but your scent says otherwise.”

  I groaned audibly.

  Elly sighed, rubbing her temples. “Daniel, whether you like it or not, you’re in the middle of something bigger than you understand. There’s a reason supernatural politics even have rules about claiming—so Nulls like you don’t get swallowed up by something worse.”

  “I already almost got swallowed by a copier repairman at my job. That’s bad enough.”

  “Exactly the point. You can’t protect yourself. You hid under your desk,” Elly deadpanned.

  “Strategic retreat,” I muttered.

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Euryale arched a brow. “The way pointy-ears tells it, you were eating tater tots while crouching behind a filing cabinet.”

  “I stand by my decisions.” I muttered with zero conviction.

  Lily clapped her hands. “As a fellow foodie, I support his snack-forward survival plan.”

  I turned to Elly with my last scrap of dignity. “Tell them to leave.”

  “Oh, I would,” she said brightly, “but I need them here to reinforce the fact that you are not going anywhere unsupervised.”

  “This is ridiculous.”

  “And yet—” she gestured around the room, “—here we are.”

  The room went quiet for a moment.

  Then Lily casually threw an arm over the back of the couch. “So. Who’s making lunch, and can it be oysters? I’m feeling a bit snuggly.”

  By the time I had resigned myself to the fact that they weren’t leaving, the second stage of my torment began: The Inspection.

  It started with innocent lounging. Lily had fully claimed a corner of my couch, draping herself across it like a pin-up model in a noir film, one leg bent just enough to make it ambiguous whether it was an invitation or a trap. Her red curls spilled across my throw pillow—a pillow I was now convinced would never smell like anything but her. That wasn’t a bad thing, considering I’d gotten wing sauce on it last week.

  Meanwhile, Elly had entered full-blown Criticism Mode. A dangerous state. "Daniel," she called from the kitchen cabinets, voice laced with alarm, "why do you have six boxes of different brands of instant noodles?"

  I shrugged. “They’re easy. And they have different flavor profiles.”

  “You mean different variations of powdered regret.”

  Euryale had the fridge open and was just... staring. Not at anything in particular—just at the concept of it. “This is a crime scene,” she said flatly. “A bleak, post-apocalyptic hellscape masquerading as refrigeration.”

  "That’s not true," I protested, moving to close my fridge. "I also have—" I leaned around her. "...Okay, is that yogurt blue?"

  Lily drifted in behind her, delicately removing a bottle of sriracha from the door. She inspected the label, squinted, and then made a noise somewhere between a squeak and a gag. "Danny. This expired three years ago."

  "That can’t be right."

  Elly wordlessly snatched it from her hands and dumped it in the trash with a single, definitive thud.

  “You live like a raccoon in a bachelor’s hoodie,” she muttered, already yanking open the pantry with the wary expression of someone expecting something to leap out.

  “Rude,” I said, defensive. “I am a busy man. I work long hours. And I forget about yogurt.”

  “You are a Null,” Euryale corrected, eyeing my cabinets like she was considering burning them for public safety. “You should be surrounded by magical wards, not condiment corpses.”

  “Also,” Lily added, “you don’t even have real coffee.” She gestured accusingly to the sad little tub of freeze-dried instant granules on the counter.

  “Excuse you,” I huffed, grabbing it. “This has caffeine, which makes it real enough.”

  Lily looked genuinely wounded. “You poor, sweet man. You deserve better. I’ll take you out for a genuine cup sometime.”

  The critique tour moved to the living room. Elly was already rummaging through my shelves like a fae librarian judging a mortal’s collection. “The Silmarillion?” she asked, lifting the tattered paperback with two fingers. “You really are a nerd.”

  “You already knew that,” I said. “And the First Age slaps.”

  Lily flopped backward into my armchair, flipping through an X-Men trade. “Shadowcat does things for me,” she murmured.

  I blinked. “Not Jean Grey? Redhead solidarity?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Too much drama. Firestar, though? Chef’s kiss. She’s got that hidden angst thing I dig.”

  Okay. She knew her X-Men. My crush deepened and alarmed me simultaneously.

  Euryale, who clearly had no interest in comics, was now examining my nerd shrine with the air of a museum curator trying to determine if the collection was ironic or tragic. Her gaze landed on the replica Master Sword mounted above the TV.

  “What,” she asked slowly, “is this?”

  “It’s the Master Sword,” I said, as reverently as one might mention a sacred relic. “From Zelda. It’s important.”

  Euryale stared. “And you own it because?”

  “Because it’s cool.”

  Elly stepped over, tilted her head. “It is a little cool,” she admitted.

  Lily, not to be outdone, stood and crossed her arms. “Alright, but seriously—do you have any actual weapons in this place? Not video game plastic replicas?”

  I shrugged. “I’ve got a baseball bat under the bed.”

  Elly groaned. “You would.”

  The three of them looked at one another like they were mentally compiling a list of every magical creature that could and would eat me, and whether a little league bat from 2003 would be effective against any of them.

  Then Elly’s head turned toward the bedroom. And I knew. I knew what was coming.

  “Absolutely not,” I said, raising both hands like a traffic cop. “You are not going in there to dig around.”

  She was already moving. “Oh, I’m going.”

  I lunged. She spun. And just like that, she vanished into my bedroom.

  “NO—wait! There’s—uh—private things under there!”

  Euryale and Lily exchanged smug glances as I chased Elly into the room. She was already kneeling beside the bed, elbow-deep in dust bunnies, old receipts, and male embarrassment.

  “Found it!” she declared, triumphantly holding up my sad old bat. “Still got your name Sharpie’d on the handle.”

  “Aww, he named it Mjolnir!” Lily patted my head.

  “It’s a vintage piece,” I muttered, grabbing it from her like she’d stolen my dignity.

  “Vintage embarrassment,” she said cheerfully. “Also completely useless unless your attacker is made of softballs and childhood trauma.”

  Back in the living room, Euryale was running her hand along the window frame. “Do you at least have wards?”

  “Uh… I have blackout curtains?”

  She sighed, then reached into her bag and pulled out a small brass amulet, shaped like a coin with strange etchings. “Put this above your door. It’ll confuse most lesser spirits.”

  Lily raised her hand. “That’s nice, and layers are great, but I can do one better. I’ll enchant the perimeter. At least then we’ll know when something crosses into the building.”

  Elly rolled her eyes. “Please. I’ve had this place linked to Elfnet for three months.”

  “You what?” I stared at her. “You linked my apartment to your magic internet?!”

  She smirked. “You think your router’s just been mysteriously losing signal every time you try to date someone who isn’t me? Please.”

  “That was you?!”

  Lily laughed so hard she had to sit back down. “Oh, he really didn’t know.”

  Euryale just smirked. “Fae interference. Classic.”

  “Fae fall hard.” Lily sighed wistfully.

  “Totally.” Euryale agreed.

  I ignored that and focused on the interference. “I thought it was weird I kept getting stood up.”

  “You’re welcome,” Elly said. “They weren’t good for you.”

  “You can’t just—!”

  “Danny,” Lily interrupted, sidling up beside me, “Did you think you were off the grid?”

  All three of them looked at me at once.

  I turned to Elly. “Why are you like this?”

  She tossed a bag of popcorn in the microwave with a grin. “Because you’re worth protecting. Even if it means burning your expired sauces and cleaning under your bed.”

  I collapsed into my couch, which now smelled like Lily’s perfume and my resignation.

  This was my life now. Magic circles on my floor. A hot fae hacker, a gorgon with green juice, and a seductive succubus who talked in purrs.

  And, apparently, a home defense strategy made of sarcasm, cinnamon wards, and outdated anime collectibles.

  I was definitely not ready. But I was claimed, apparently.

  Whatever that meant.