There's a good half a dozen things he'd have had prepared to say, even a year ago, machismo about how Finch would only be so lucky to get at what he was working with here. He figures he's come a long way, when he just rubs his hand at the back of his neck. "Whatever, man. Don't matter to me junk you're rubbin' your face in."

He points to Finch for the last bit, gives him a bit of a nod. "Yeah, but see? That's just good taste. Everybody who knows what's comin' for 'em knows that tits are the bomb, a'ight? I'm talkin' everybody."