"She's not," Don Juan insisted immediately, despite the fact that she very much was. At least in the technical and legal sense this was entirely inarguable. He would have been hard pressed to have come up with proof of it, if he'd needed to, because he hadn't kept any mementos from his time with her and certainly hadn't retained the marriage certificate — but he had little doubt that either Ana had it or would have no trouble rustling it up at a moment's notice from the appropriate authorities. It had all been done quite legally, at the time. But putting the technicalities and legalities aside, it wasn't as though they were married in any real way. That was what he was trying to impress upon Valencia, as she flew off the handle. It wasn't that kind of betrayal. It wasn't like he loved her.

"I was eighteen," he said, just before a pair of pants hit him in the chest. He wasn't sure if that was accidental or if Valencia had purposefully flung them his direction with her packing charm, but he wasn't inclined to look a gift horse in the mouth at the moment. He scrambled to get them on. Whether he managed to talk her down or not, the cooking breakfast naked energy was unrecoverable.

---