In the back bedroom of number seventeen, the boy with the white shirt lies awake, looking at the girl beside him, her eyes, the thin arch of her eyebrows, the dusting of glitter around her eyes. He leans his face towards her to feel the warm push of her breath on his forehead, he leans back to look at her, props himself up on one elbow to look at the whole length of her. He remebers the way people looked at her last night, in the club, the way people always looked at her when they were out, the way he's looking at her now; appraisingly, admiringly, a breathless yearning which is not really or not entirely sexual but something else, something noble or aesthetic perhaps. He hears himself whispering Jesus I'm so lucky, and he looks up quickly to check no one's awake. But it's true he thinks, he is, and he is, and he lies back down, closing his eyes in sweet anticipation of the weeks and months and maybe years to come. They haven't made their plans yet, they're not sure what they'll be doing or what they'll be, but he knows they'll be spending their neights enclosed together like this, he knows he can take that much for granted. The fact that they haven't even needed to discuss it makes it all the sweeter, like it's a given, like it's as natural as a cup of tea in the morning, or a shared cigarette. He kisses the corner of her lips, with his eyes still closed, and he drifts back into sleep.