My eyes are closed and my feet are moving, my chest is rattling, my nose hairs are tickling from the rumbling bass. A few of us went for a quick drink and now here we are, 12 hours later, the group dispersed and my eyes settling on the man to my right.
We catch each other's eyes in mutual appreciation of the moment, the intro we recognise, the hour, the incoming drop. We grin at each other and he says "I can't believe they wanted to shut this place down" and I yell back "I know, it's nuts".
He places his finger over my ear when he leans down to talk to me - the nightclub equivalent of holding the door open - and although it's nearly 5am, some rituals are still in place: he offers to buy me a drink.
His friends are unreachable, the spot where mine were is empty now too. We move to the next room, a different sound, a different crowd. We dance next to each other and then, slowly, subtly, he moves behind me; puts his hands on my hips, and then he turns me around and we kiss.
Walking through the city in the dark. It's past 6am, freezing, and his jacket went home with his friends. We flag down a black cab and I give the driver - his first fare of the day - my address.
And all I feel is a lightness, a relief that this sort of thing can still happen; a night can still tumble into something you didn't expect. I lean into the stranger on the backseat, he kisses the top of my head. We're laughing-tired, too stupidly wired for the hour; comparing the ringing sounds in our ears.
It's 8am when we finally call it a night, or a day, and get into bed with our clothes on, not bothering to change. We stay that way until the afternoon. He leaves later, and when he says "thank you", I know him just well enough to know he means it. It's not numbers we swap but names; a long hug, a quick kiss.
"You're welcome," I say, letting him out. The night is over, there's still no expectations. And I'm still smiling to myself after shutting the door.