Re: In-person: Cris/Sam
[Meredith is in that card on the ground, huh? Underfoot. And Cris swears, if he could just put fire to her—to the parta his brain she's infected, he'd be fine. It ain't true, but he feels it. Like heat could cleanse him. It can't. More than that, it won't even help. But, he wants it to, huh?—But, he's not thinkinga her now. 'Cause Sam's right there. She helped him, successfully, get the damn redhead outta his mind, and he's focused now on his girl, huh? On how she looks, how small and young and wild and hurt.
He lifts his hands off the bag when he watches her shift to throw the punch through the meata her shoulder. It resounds, right there, next to his face. Then, she's doing it again—again, again, again. He don't stop her. He knows how good it feels, huh?] Breathe. It's about breathin', more than it is hittin'. [Sweat gathers on his upper lip.] Relax your arms when you ain't makin' impact. Make contact, return the fist, throw the next punch. Like a snap, huh? Not a thud. [Quiet, even under the constant soundsa gloves to bag, he's quiet, forcing her to focus on him if she wants to hear him.—He circles the bag, coming 'round to stand behind Sam, his hands to her hips—just resting, feeling the twista her body as she moves. Not enforcing nothing. Just there.]