They didn't bother with plates.
They sat in a loose circle on the worn, beige carpet of the living room, passing the pizza boxes between them.
The beer was cold, the pizza was perfectly greasy, and the conversation flowed with an easy, effortless rhythm.
Sophie told a hilarious, highly exaggerated story about Mike accidentally locking himself in the server room earlier that week.
Iralis, fueled by half a beer, passionately explained why the traffic light synchronization on 5th Avenue was a mathematical tragedy, drawing an actual diagram on a grease-stained napkin.
Zara leaned against Ryan's side, stealing the pepperoni off his slices when he wasn't looking, entirely relaxed and unguarded.
It was simple. It was profoundly, beautifully mundane.
Ryan leaned his head back against the base of the couch, chewing a slice of pizza, and watched them.
He watched Sophie throw her head back in laughter at something Zara said.
