The Cullens’ living room glowed with soft amber light, rain tapping steadily against the towering windows like impatient fingers. The whole family was gathered—Carlisle perched in his armchair with that calm, knowing smile, Esme curled gracefully at his side, Rosalie standing near the piano with her arms crossed, Emmett sprawled across the couch like he owned the place, and Alice perched on the armrest, eyes sparkling with barely contained mischief.

You sat beside Jasper on the couch, tucked neatly into his side. Your head rested against his shoulder, fitting there like it had always belonged. His arm curved around you protectively, fingers threaded through yours, his thumb brushing slow, grounding circles over your knuckles. Jasper’s golden eyes were softer than usual, trained on the room but constantly flicking back to you, like he was checking your emotional temperature out of habit.

Edward leaned against the wall, arms folded, an amused smirk playing on his lips as Emmett laughed loudly. “Face it,” Emmett said, grinning, “Edward’s the obvious choice. Mind-reading, broody charm, tragic hero thing—he’s basically custom-built perfection.”

Rosalie scoffed. “Perfection is overrated.”

Edward lifted a brow. “I’m not arguing.”

Alice clapped her hands together. “Oh, come on, this is fun. If we’re ranking brothers, there has to be criteria.”

Bella, curled into the opposite end of the couch, smiled faintly. “If you go by the checklist,” she said, glancing at Edward, “Edward’s perfect.”

Jasper stiffened almost imperceptibly beside you. You felt it before anyone else—the familiar ripple of unease he tried to smother. You squeezed his hand gently, a silent anchor.

You tilted your head, smiling without hesitation. “But I like how mine’s a little off-center,” you said calmly. “He’s got Wabi-Sabi.”

The room went quiet for half a second.

Bella blinked at you. “You can’t win an argument by making up words.”

You laughed softly, lifting your head just enough to look at her. “Wabi-Sabi is an eastern tradition, Sis. It’s celebrating the beauty in what’s flawed.”

Jasper’s breath hitched. His thumb stilled against your skin.

Alice’s eyes widened with delight. “Oh, I love that.”

Emmett snorted. “So Jasper’s… artistically flawed?”

Rosalie shot him a look. “And you’re loud.”

You turned slightly toward Jasper now, your free hand resting over his chest, feeling the steady, controlled rhythm beneath your palm. “He’s real,” you continued, voice gentle but sure. “He fights himself every day. He feels deeply. He tries. That matters more than perfection ever could.”

Jasper looked at you then, really looked at you, something raw and reverent flickering across his face. The tension in the room softened, emotions evening out—his doing, maybe, but mostly yours.

Edward’s smirk faded into something more thoughtful. “She’s not wrong,” he admitted quietly.

Carlisle smiled. “Well said.”

Jasper leaned down, his forehead resting briefly against your hair, his voice low and meant only for you. “Thank you, darlin’,” he murmured. “For seeing me.”

You smiled, fingers tightening in his. “Always.”