That Makes Five

The bass from the living room rattles the sliding glass door. The wind whipping across the balcony is brutal, but you don't really care. Stella is currently swallowed up to her chin in your heavy denim jacket, the sleeves hanging inches past her fingertips, looking entirely too comfortable. You are stuck in a thin long-sleeve shirt, officially freezing your ass off. As long as she is warm, though, it is fine.

"I'm telling you, it's a UFO," Stella says. She uses one of her floppy, jacket-covered hands to point at a blinking red light on the skyline.

"Stella. It is an aviation warning light on top of a radio tower."

"That's exactly what they want you to think," she scoffs. "They're probably beaming up a cow as we speak."

"In downtown Seoul?"

"Maybe it's on vacation?"

You laugh, and she grins, evidently pleased with herself. She shifts her weight so she is facing you, the movement closing the remaining gap between you. Her knee bumps yours and stays there.

A sharp gust of wind sweeps across the balcony, biting straight through your thin shirt. Your shoulders tense on reflex. You try to suppress the shiver, but Stella’s eyes narrow slightly, catching the movement immediately.

"You're freezing," she points out, her voice dropping its teasing edge.

"I'm good," you deflect automatically. "It was just a breeze."

"You're lying." She looks down at the heavy denim swallowing her frame, then back up at you, her expression softening into something far more observant. "You always do this, you know. You hand over your only jacket and then stand there quietly freezing to death so I don't feel guilty over it."

"I'm perfectly fine, Stell. The shivering is for dramatic effect."

"Right."

She steps directly into your space, her hand slipping out of the oversized sleeve to grab the front of your shirt. She doesn't pull you. She just anchors her fist in the fabric, looking up at you, fully calling your bluff.

"You're acting very brave for someone whose teeth are obviously chattering," she murmurs.

You swallow hard, the cold air suddenly feeling irrelevant. She is looking at you with that steady, unblinking focus, waiting for you to bridge the last few inches.

You've been practicing this exact moment in your head for the better part of six years. You've rehearsed the wording more times than you can count, usually right before talking yourself out of it again. Every single time, the confession would lodge itself sideways in your throat, paralyzed by the fear of ruining the best thing you have going for you.

But standing here now, with her hand anchored in your shirt and her eyes flicking down to your mouth, that familiar panic is gone. There is no guesswork left.

"Stella," you say, your voice coming out a little rougher than intended.

"Yeah?" Her thumb brushes lightly against your collarbone.

"I've been meaning to tell you something. For a while, actually."

She tilts her head. Any teasing edge melts away, leaving something incredibly soft and sincere in its place. "Okay," she murmurs, stepping a fraction of an inch closer. Her thumb brushes a slow, absent circle against your chest. "Tell me."

You can practically hear your own heartbeat in your ears. The party, the cold, the city skyline — all of it falls away.

You take a slow breath, the freezing air filling your lungs. "Stella, I—"

The heavy glass door behind you screeches open along its metal track.

A blast of warm air and deafening pop music spills onto the balcony, followed immediately by Carmen's head poking through the gap.

"Stella! Your mom is calling me!" Carmen shouts over the music, waving a glowing smartphone. "She says you're ignoring her texts and she needs to know where the spare house key is!"

You close your eyes and press your lips into a hard, flat line. It is actually unbelievable. It feels like the universe has drafted a personalized, highly targeted vendetta against you finishing this specific sentence. You love Mrs. Kim, but her twenty-minute tangents could not have picked a worse moment in the history of human communication.

Stella doesn't move away from you. Her jaw locks. Her grip on your shirt tightens for a second — her knuckles digging into your sternum like she is physically restraining herself from ripping the phone out of Carmen's hand and tossing it off the roof.

"That makes five," she mutters under her breath, the words tight and utterly venomous.

"What?" Carmen yells.

Stella finally drops her grip on your shirt, though her fingers linger for a split second longer than necessary before she whips around. "Tell her I'm coming!"

Carmen gives a thumbs-up and ducks back inside.

Stella lets out a sharp exhale, grabbing the front of your shirt again and giving it a firm shake. "I'm going to deal with my mom, okay? Don't — don't move. I swear to God, please don't move."

She slips back through the glass door. You are left standing alone in the freezing wind, staring at the blinking red tower light in the distance, waiting for the universe to stop getting in your way.

You really do try to follow instructions. You stand there like a stubborn statue for five minutes, and then eight, willing the glass door to slide back open. But you're still just a guy wearing a paper-thin shirt in biting cold. By the time you hit the ten-minute mark, your teeth are chattering hard enough to give you a headache, and you can't actually feel your fingers anymore.

The weather finally wins out over your promise.

You surrender, sliding the door open and slipping back into the suffocating, humid heat of the apartment.

The music is deafening, the bass thumping instantly against your chest. You navigate through the chaotic crush of people toward the kitchen, catching a glimpse of Stella backed into the hallway on your way. She has her phone pressed tightly to her ear, looking absolutely murderous as she nods along to whatever her mom is saying.

You reach the kitchen island. Ian is already there, leaning against the counter and nursing a beer. She takes one look at you and slides a red Solo cup across the marble.

"You look like you got locked in a meat freezer," Ian says, pushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

"Yeah, well, I gave Stella my jacket."

Ian smirks. "Right. I saw Carmen pushing her way back inside a few minutes ago yelling about a spare key. Let me guess: She ruined the moment?"

"Yep," you say, popping the P.

"Tragic. What are we on, attempt number four?"

"Five," you correct miserably.

"Five." Ian shakes her head, taking a slow sip of her beer. "You are literally living in a sitcom, by the way. Just text it to her at this point."

You take a drink, dragging a hand down your face. "It's a nightmare, dude. Every time I try to actually say it, something happens. I don't even know if I should plan a whole thing or just scream it at her in the middle of a hallway."

"You're overcomplicating it, I think." She taps her cup against the counter. "You guys already act like you've been married for a decade. Just spit the words out."

"Am I?" You stare down at your cup, thoroughly exhausted. "I just want to get it right."