Re: In-person: Cris/Sam
[Like she can read him in his shrug, Cris knows what's coming with that tippa Sam's chin.] No sé. But, I'll tell you somethin' I do know, which is that I can't. It ain't priority. The fact that he even brought it up? [He shakes his head, suppressing an eyeroll.] It wasn't the time. It was somethin' nonea us needed right now. And I get people's problems ain't always gonna be convenient, but, right after alla this ain't ever gonna be the time. [He waves his hands a lil bit, 'cause he knows he's either preaching to the choir or he's being too harsh, and it don't matter no more anyway, huh? It's been said. Sam knows now, and they gotta deal with it.—She blushes and it draws him back quick. She's happy, huh? He can see it in rosy cheeks, and he smiles.] I do. It makes my stomach go all warm, huh? [He's teasing, even though he ain't lying.
He butts his shoulder back in rebuff.] You think cops can't have rap sheets? [He don't mind the forcea her telling him he can't put the shirt on. He gives Sam's ass a swat, if she's close enough for it, before she heads over to the standing bag.
Close, his eyes are on her, on her posture, on her thighs and hips too. He grins when she swivels, lips wide under her gaze.] Put your weight on the big toea your right foot. Dig into the ground with it, and use the forcea that—as it goes up—[He illustrates with his fingers. A gesture to his own foot, then a dragga touch to calf and thigh.]—then turn your hips and shoulders—and let that carry your punch with your torso. [Cris' hands go to the armsa the chair, and he peels himself from the pleather. He don't stand, but he leans forward. He taps on his own knuckles.] Use the big knuckles here and here—[Index and middle fingers.]—to hit the bag. [He licks his lips and his hands fold into each other, elbows on his thighs.] Let's see, huh?