Nova puts a hand to his heart as if he's wounded, like his grandma hasn't spit worse fire at him. He's about to point out that a cat café is pretty much the very definition of bougie when the number settles and then he stares at her. "Three? Nah, that's not gonna work. I won't–"

He won't what? Stand for it? Maybe not, but also, Nova's pretty sure he won't live that long. How fast had his magic already been burning its way to his heart before he got the temporary do-over from the Devourer? The promised Deathday that the Mortizes had offered sticks a little harder in his throat.

"Noveno Santiago," he says, trying not to sound like any of the things he feels. Pissed off, defeated, afraid. "Nova."