The living room is loud in that familiar, chaotic way—half laughter, half heckling, the low hum of a VHS rewinding somewhere in the background. Someone’s kicked their boots up on the coffee table, there’s an empty pizza box balanced precariously on a stack of skate mags, and the air smells like beer and sweat and something faintly burnt.

You’re tucked into Bam’s side on the couch, like it’s the most natural place in the world. Your head rests against his shoulder, his arm slung loose around you, fingers lazily intertwined with yours. Every so often, he squeezes your hand—absentminded, grounding, like he needs the reminder you’re there.

The debate starts the way these things always do. Loud. Unnecessary. Competitive for no real reason.

“Come on,” Steve-O says from the armchair, gesturing with a beer. “If you go by the checklist—like, talent, charisma, fearlessness—Johnny’s perfect.”

Johnny raises his hands in mock surrender, grinning. “I didn’t even say anything.”

Bam snorts, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Saint Johnny of Knoxville.”

A couple people laugh. Someone mutters, “He’s not wrong though.”

You shift slightly, lifting your head just enough to look at Steve-O, then at Bam. Bam’s jaw tightens—not angry, just that familiar edge of defensiveness he pretends he doesn’t have. You squeeze his fingers before you speak.

“But I like how mine’s a little off-center,” you say easily. “He’s got Wabi-Sabi.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then Steve-O squints at you. “You can’t win an argument by making up words.”

A few snickers ripple through the room.

You don’t miss a beat. “Wabi-Sabi is an eastern tradition, Steve-O. It’s celebrating the beauty in what’s flawed.”

The room quiets again—different this time. Curious. Listening.

“It’s about imperfection,” you continue, voice calm but certain. “About things that are messy and cracked and real. Stuff that’s lived-in. Stuff that’s been through it and didn’t come out polished, but came out honest.”

You glance at Bam as you say it, thumb brushing over his knuckles.

“He’s not perfect,” you add. “He’s impulsive. He’s loud. He screws up. A lot.” Bam huffs a laugh under his breath. “But he’s creative in a way you can’t fake. He feels things hard. He doesn’t sand himself down to be easier to like.”

Bam turns his head to look at you now, expression unreadable—eyes a little softer than usual.

“That’s Wabi-Sabi,” you finish. “And I wouldn’t trade it for perfect.”

For a moment, nobody says anything.

Then Johnny nods slowly. “Damn,” he says. “That was… kinda beautiful.”

Steve-O lifts his beer in surrender. “Okay. Fair. Still don’t like losing, though.”

Bam grins, sharp and proud, pulling you closer until your forehead bumps his jaw. “Hear that?” he murmurs just for you. “I’m art.”

You smile against his shoulder. “You’re something.”

He laughs, pressing a kiss into your hair, and for once, he doesn’t argue at all.