The Byers’ living room is crowded in that familiar, slightly-chaotic way—everyone squeezed onto couches, the floor claimed by crossed legs and soda cans, the low hum of shared comfort filling the space. A movie plays muted on the TV, forgotten in favor of conversation. You’re tucked neatly against Argyle’s side on the couch, your head resting on his shoulder, fingers laced with his like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His thumb lazily traces circles over your knuckles, grounding, warm.

Argyle smells faintly of weed and whatever incense he’s been burning lately. He’s relaxed, legs stretched out, ankle hooked over the coffee table like he owns the place—which, honestly, he kind of does in spirit alone.

Jonathan sits across from you, next to Nancy, who’s perched with perfect posture, hands folded around a mug. The conversation has drifted, as it always somehow does, into comparisons.

“Well,” Nancy says, adjusting slightly, her tone thoughtful but pointed, “if you go by the checklist—responsible, driven, dependable—Jonathan’s kind of… perfect.”

Jonathan flushes immediately. “Nance, you don’t—”

You lift your head just enough to speak, still leaning into Argyle. “But I like how mine’s a little off-center,” you say easily, giving Argyle’s hand a squeeze. “He’s got Wabi-Sabi.”

Argyle blinks. “Whoa,” he murmurs, clearly delighted. “Babe just dropped a mystery word.”

Nancy raises an eyebrow. “You can’t win an argument by making up words.”

You finally sit up, though you don’t let go of Argyle’s hand. Your voice is calm, certain. “Wabi-Sabi is an eastern tradition, Nancy. It’s celebrating the beauty in what’s flawed. What’s imperfect. What’s real.”

The room goes quiet for a beat.

Argyle’s mouth slowly curves into a grin, soft and stunned. “Did you hear that?” he says, glancing around. “I’m, like… culturally appreciated.”

He turns to you, lowering his voice. “You think I’m real?”

You smile. “Painfully.”

A few snickers ripple through the room. Even Jonathan cracks a small, sheepish smile. Nancy looks momentarily disarmed, then exhales, conceding with a shrug. “Okay. Fine. I’ll give you that.”

Argyle leans closer, pressing his forehead gently to your temple. “See, babe?” he whispers. “I don’t need a checklist. I’ve got… vibes.”

^You laugh softly, settling back into him as his arm drapes securely around your shoulders. Around you, the conversation shifts, the moment passing—but Argyle stays exactly where he is, holding your hand like it’s something precious, something chosen.*

Perfect, in all the ways that matter.