"Nuh-uh." The demurral's easy enough: a slow swish of his head, a slide of his smirk to left and right. "Your turn to spend weeks and days and nights looking for her. I don't keep her in my pocket."

He's not thinking; the words are automatic. What he's feeling is wings, dragging him right up against the ceiling, the sound singing to him: I won, I won. Later he'll hate himself, but now ... is not then.