The Byers’ living room is loud in that familiar, comfortable way—too many people, mismatched furniture, and overlapping conversations bouncing off the wood-paneled walls. Someone’s perched on the arm of the couch, someone else is sprawled on the floor with their back against it, and the coffee table is cluttered with empty soda cans and a half-forgotten bowl of pretzels.

You’re curled into Eddie’s side on the couch, your head resting against his shoulder like it belongs there. His leather jacket creaks softly every time he shifts, and his fingers are laced with yours, absentmindedly rubbing his thumb over your knuckles. It’s grounding. Eddie Munson might look like chaos incarnate, but right now he’s warm and steady and very real.

Across from you, Steve is leaning against the doorway with that stupidly handsome, effortless posture of his, arms crossed and chin tipped up like he already knows he’s winning whatever argument is happening.

“And I’m just saying,” Steve continues, grinning, “if you go by the checklist—responsible, protective, good hair—”

Nancy, seated near the edge of the couch with Jonathan beside her, nods thoughtfully. “If you go by the checklist,” she says, pushing her hair behind her ear, “Steve’s perfect.”

Eddie makes a low, exaggerated gagging noise in his throat. “Wow. Betrayal. In this house. In front of God and everyone.”

Steve points at him. “See? Immature.”

You don’t even look up at Steve. You shift slightly closer to Eddie instead, your fingers tightening with his. “But I like how mine’s a little off-center,” you say easily. “He’s got Wabi-Sabi.”

Eddie freezes for half a second, then slowly turns his head to look at you, eyes wide and touched. “Baby,” he murmurs, “did you just call me artistically imperfect?”

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

You lift your head from Eddie’s shoulder just enough to look at her, one eyebrow raised. “Wabi-Sabi is an eastern tradition, Nancy. It’s celebrating the beauty in what’s flawed.”

There’s a brief silence.

Dustin, sitting cross-legged on the floor, looks between Eddie and Steve. “Yeah, Steve. She basically just said Eddie’s cool because he’s messed up.”

“Hey!” Eddie protests, then smirks. “Actually… yeah. I’ll take that.”

Steve scoffs. “So I’m losing because I’m… too put together?”

Robin snorts from her spot on the armchair. “Tragic, honestly.”

Eddie leans down until his forehead bumps lightly against yours. “Hear that, sweetheart?” he whispers. “I’m flawed. Cultured. Aesthetic.”

You smile, soft and fond, and press a quick kiss to his cheek. “Perfectly imperfect.”

Eddie straightens, throwing an arm around your shoulders like he’s just been knighted. “Munson wins,” he announces. “By ancient philosophical tradition.”

Steve rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. The room fills with laughter again, warm and loud, and Eddie squeezes your hand—just once, like a secret—before settling back into the couch with you tucked safely at his side.