The living room is crowded in that familiar, mismatched way—folding chairs dragged in from the kitchen, people sitting cross-legged on the floor, someone perched on the arm of the couch like it’s a throne. The TV’s on mute, some late-night infomercial flickering uselessly in the background. Everyone’s talking over everyone else, voices overlapping until it turns into noise.

You’re tucked into Fezco’s side on the couch, like it’s the most natural place in the world. Your head rests against his shoulder, his cheek brushing your hair every time he shifts. His hand is big and warm around yours, fingers laced together loosely, thumb rubbing slow circles against your knuckles without him even realizing he’s doing it.

Ashtray’s name comes up for the third time in five minutes.

“I’m just saying,” Jules says, sitting forward with her elbows on her knees, animated as always. “If you go by the checklist—loyal, smart, efficient, fearless—Ashtray’s perfect.”

A few people nod. Someone snorts a laugh. Fez doesn’t say anything. He just tightens his grip on your hand slightly, jaw flexing like he’s chewing on the thought instead of responding to it.

You lift your head, tilting it just enough to look around the room. “Yeah,” you say calmly, “but I like how mine’s a little off center.”

Fez glances down at you, surprised, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“He’s got Wabi-Sabi.”

Jules blinks. “You can’t win an argument by making up words.”

You sit up just enough to speak clearly, but you don’t move away from Fez. If anything, you lean closer, your shoulder pressing into his chest. “Wabi-Sabi is an eastern tradition, Jules. It’s celebrating the beauty in what’s flawed.”

The room quiets a bit. Fez lets out a low breath through his nose, amused.

“It’s about cracks and wear and things that don’t fit a mold,” you continue, eyes steady. “It’s about history. Survival. The stuff that shows you someone’s lived.”

Someone mutters, “Damn.”

Fez finally speaks, voice soft but solid. “I ain’t perfect,” he says simply. “Never claimed to be.”

You squeeze his hand. “Exactly.”

Jules leans back, studying the two of you. “Okay,” she says slowly, “but Ashtray’s still kind of a legend.”

“No argument there,” you reply. “But perfection isn’t what makes someone worth loving.”

Fez shifts, wrapping an arm around your shoulders, pulling you in until your head fits back under his chin like it belongs there. His lips brush your hair, barely there, but intentional.

The room fills with chatter again, the debate drifting somewhere else. Fez leans down and murmurs, just for you, “You always got some smart shit to say, huh?”

You smile against his shoulder. “Only when it matters.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, thumb still tracing circles over your intertwined fingers, and for a moment, everything feels perfectly, beautifully imperfect.