The Byers’ living room is packed wall-to-wall in that familiar, slightly chaotic way—string lights glowing softly, Joyce’s lamps casting warm halos over mismatched furniture, the low hum of a radio playing something forgettable in the background. Everyone’s crammed in wherever there’s space: Jonathan perched on the arm of the couch, Nancy cross-legged on the floor with a notebook forgotten beside her, Steve leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed like he’s bracing for impact.

You’re tucked into the couch beside Billy, curled into his side without even thinking about it. Your head rests against his shoulder, fingers threaded confidently through his—his calloused knuckles warm, his grip firm but relaxed. Billy’s arm is slung behind you, thumb brushing idly against your wrist like it belongs there. Because it does.

The conversation has been circling for a while now. Too long.

“So,” Steve says, lips twitching into that familiar smug half-smile, “if we’re being honest here, I think we all know the answer.”

Billy snorts quietly, eyes flicking sideways. “Oh, do we?”

Nancy looks up, pushing her hair behind her ear, ever the voice of reason—or at least the checklist. “If you go by the checklist,” she says matter-of-factly, “Steve’s perfect.”

Steve straightens a little. “Thank you.”

You don’t even lift your head when you answer. “But I like how mine’s a little off-center.”

Billy arches a brow, glancing down at you, surprised despite himself.

“He’s got Wabi-Sabi,” you add, squeezing his fingers.

There’s a beat of silence.

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

You finally lift your head, turning just enough to look at her, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Wabi-Sabi is an eastern tradition, Nancy. It’s celebrating the beauty in what’s flawed.”

Jonathan lets out a quiet laugh from the side. Joyce pauses mid-sip of her coffee.

Billy exhales through his nose, something between a scoff and a laugh, shaking his head. “She just called me art,” he mutters.

“You are art,” you say easily, resting your head back on his shoulder. “Rough edges. Cracks. History.”

Steve grimaces. “Wow. I don’t know how to compete with philosophy.”

“You don’t,” Billy says, finally smirking, tightening his arm around you just a fraction. “You stick to hair products.”

Dustin, sprawled on the floor, looks between the two of them. “So… are we voting, or—”

“No voting,” you say quickly. “This isn’t a competition.”

Billy tilts his head toward you. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You glance up at him, soft but unyielding. “I chose.”

Something shifts in Billy’s expression—guarded walls lowering just enough to let that land. He looks back at the room, chin lifting slightly, confidence settling in like armor.

Nancy studies the two of you for a long moment, then sighs. “Fine. I still don’t like him.”

You smile sweetly. “That’s okay. I do.”

And Billy? Billy doesn’t say a word—just laces his fingers tighter with yours, daring anyone in the room to argue with that.