Rick tosses his hips at Simone and his weight tumbles around her; she catches him, easing down just enough so that his legs stay on the bed as she rolls underneath him. Only to rattle the picture frames and shimmy the necklace off the nightstand. Only to snap the blinds against their windows. He is these noises and a few of his own; his muscles shake the bed coils, the clunking iron frame. Headboard bucking, Simone laughing, white fistfuls of sheets, and oh how much more noise could there be, how much goddamn noise and then their eyes meet. Everything slows. He holds her with ten fingers, palms, wrists, a thigh over hers, his lower back feeding his torso to her belly, his biceps cupping her shoulders, his breath and his not blinking. A man in a stare. He is everything in the room save the bones beneath her skin.