Bea folds her arms tightly, looking like she's ready to fight someone—me, specifically. "For the last time, Pretty Boy is mine," she declares with petulance in her tone.
I roll my eyes. "You say that like he's a limited-edition handbag."
León, who's still leaning against the wall, half-conscious and looking like death warmed over, makes a weak attempt at smirking. "I'm flattered."
I ignore him.
"Bea, people aren't things to be owned," I say dryly.
Bea narrows her eyes. "Says the one who's been calling him Pretty Boy like some pet name."
"It wasn't a pet name," I protest. "It was a placeholder. And, if anything, you should be thanking me… could've called him something worse. Like Water Thief."
León groans. "Oh my God, let that go."
Before Bea and I can continue our very serious debate over human ownership rights, Yara cuts in with a harsh cough, pressing a shaky hand against the wall to keep herself upright.
