Dustin and Lucas are nose-to-nose over a battered Dungeons & Dragons manual, their voices a steady, bickering hum.

And then there’s Mike and El. They’re tucked into the corner of the couch, a single, intertwined shape under a faded Star Wars blanket. His arm is around her shoulders, her head is on his chest. His fingers trace idle patterns on her arm. You can see the quiet press of his lips against the crown of her head every few minutes.

You’re sitting on the floor, your back against the side of the couch, right where the shag carpet is worn thin to the concrete. You can feel the vibration of Mike’s low laugh through the cushions.