The way that you own me...

Tre Kvart Från Nu

The rain had come down hard all evening, filling the streets with shimmering puddles, making the night air damp and heavy. The sound of it against the window was rhythmic, almost soothing, but Frida felt anything but calm.

She sat curled up on the couch, a half-empty glass of wine on the table in front of her, her fingers playing absently with the hem of her sweater. The room was dimly lit, warm despite the storm outside, but she felt cold.

Waiting always made her feel cold.

She shouldn't have been waiting at all.

But she knew he would come. He always did.

And then—

A knock.

Frida's breath caught.

It was soft at first, hesitant. Then again, firmer, as if he knew she was standing just beyond the door, listening.

Her hands shook slightly as she stood, as she reached for the handle, as she let him in.

And there he was.

Benny.

He stood in the dim light of the hallway, his coat dripping with rain, his hair messy from the wind. He looked exhausted—torn in two—but his eyes still held that familiar warmth when they met hers.

She swallowed. "You're late."

He let out a breath, almost a laugh, shaking his head. "You always say that."

She did. Every time. Because it was easier than saying all the things she really wanted to say.

That she had missed him.
That she had counted the minutes.
That she hated this.

And yet, she stepped aside, letting him in.

Benny slipped off his coat, draping it over the chair by the door. The moment stretched between them, thick with unspoken words.

Frida crossed her arms. "You shouldn't be here."

"I know."

But he didn't leave. He never did.

Instead, he sat down on the couch, running a hand through his damp hair. Frida stayed standing, watching him, feeling that all-too-familiar ache build in her chest.

Silence settled between them, the kind that wasn't uncomfortable but was filled with the weight of everything they were trying not to say.

It was always like this.

Then Benny sighed. "Did you write today?"

The question caught her off guard. She blinked, then nodded. "A little."

"What about?"

Frida hesitated. "Something sad."

Benny tilted his head, watching her closely. "You always write sad things."

She let out a small, breathless laugh. "Maybe because life is sad."

He exhaled, shaking his head. "Not always."

She arched a brow. "No?"

Benny smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Not when I'm with you."

The words hit harder than she wanted them to.

Because she knew they were true.
Because she felt the same way.

But Christine existed.

Christine, his wife. The woman waiting at home.

Frida had never met her, but she knew her name, knew the way Benny spoke about her when he let his guard down. She knew she was kind. That she played the piano. That she had loved Benny long before Frida ever had the chance to.

And yet—

Frida was the one he was here with.

The thought made her stomach twist with guilt. She didn't want to be this woman. She had never thought she could be.

And yet, she couldn't stop.

Benny was still watching her. His eyes were so warm, so open, and it hurt because she knew they weren't hers to look into.

Frida swallowed hard. "You should go home."

But Benny didn't move.

Instead, he reached for her.

And like every time before, she let him.

⸻

His hands were on her before she could think, before she could tell herself to stop. They tangled in her hair, tilting her face up to his, and then—

His lips found hers.

The kiss was slow at first, hesitant, filled with all the things they didn't say. But then, as if something broke between them, it deepened, turned desperate, urgent.

Benny pulled her closer, his hands gripping her waist, pressing her against him as though he was afraid she might disappear.

Frida gasped when his lips trailed down her jaw, her neck, his breath hot against her skin.

"I shouldn't be here," he murmured.

Her fingers tightened in his shirt. "I don't care."

He let out a soft, breathless laugh, his forehead resting against hers. "You never do."

She closed her eyes.

No, she never did.

And that terrified her.

Because every time she told herself it would be the last.
Every time, she tried to convince herself that she could walk away.
Every time, she failed.

Because Benny was not just some mistake.

She loved him.

God help her, she loved him.

And that was why this hurt so much.

Benny's hands cupped her face, his thumbs brushing gently over her cheekbones. His touch was reverent, worshipping. "Frida..."

She knew what he wanted to say. She didn't let him.

Instead, she kissed him again, because that was the only way she could keep him from breaking her completely.

And he kissed her back like he belonged to her.

For a little while, he did.

⸻

Later, as they lay tangled together in the dim light, Benny traced slow, lazy patterns along her bare shoulder, his fingers soft, absentminded.

Frida lay still, staring at the ceiling, her body warm against his, but her heart cold again.

"This can't be the last time," he whispered.

Frida closed her eyes.

She wanted to tell him it could be. That it had to be.

But she couldn't.

"I know," she whispered.

And yet, they both knew the truth.

Tre kvart från nu.

Three quarters of an hour.

That was all it would take.

By then, he would be home.

By then, Christine would be waiting.

By then, he would step inside, shaking off the rain, kissing his wife on the cheek, pretending nothing had happened.

And she—

She would still be here, staring at the ceiling, wondering if she was supposed to feel relief.

She didn't.

She never did.