Re: In-person: Sam & Cris
[Cris never could run. It's not real strong when you don't got much choice. Maybe he has a choice now, but he didn't always, and maybe it's habit. Or maybe, he's just too stubborn, and, like taking up space, it's his right to stay put, so he fights for it, pitbull and teeth latched 'round jugular, hasta que la muerte nos separe. He just ain't a runner. It's not better or worse, or stronger or not, he doesn't think. But, he has a family—a family that includes Sam and includes Lou, and he don't back down from threats to his people.
But, maybe he lets a lil bitta that fight go. Just for a second. When she hums. He don't know the song, but he likes her voice—and the smile he gives her, though slight, is genuine, bright from the centera her chest 'til he drops her down.] I won't let her keep him from us—from me. [It's a promise, as earnest as anya Cris' others.
He delivers predictability—] I want you to. Por favor. [Her thumb rakes over his bottom lip and he kisses at the whorls in skin, but it's thoughtless. His gaze is the thing that sticks, barbed on Sam, burred into her, and he nods—one swallow undulating throat and he nods.] I will. [Cris curves both palms 'neath the girl's ass and tips her to him, leverages her just right, that all he has to do is dip forward an inch or so to kiss her, like it's a seal on his words, a sacrament made.—He can feel the Caridad's chain beetling against thin cotton over his chest.] Prometo.