12:32 AM [Three-Shot]

Part I

Tick, tick, tick.

He doesn't like that noisy clock. In fact, he's counted how many times it has pestered his eardrums -- those short ticks.

"18,035... 18,036... 18,037."

He started when she left. She left.

Every time he remembers, his hands, as though controlled by strings, press against his swollen eyes, then run through his dimly red locks. It was a thought he dares not think about. There's a thorn piercing through his chest whenever he recalls how she is -- was, rather -- when she was with him. How caring, and sweet, and wonderful.

He has never met a woman as perfect. It even occurs to him, from time to time, that maybe it was all an act, or maybe an illusion. It's impossible to be someone so... desirable. So wanted that his chest tightens, and he can scarcely breathe.

And it tightens even more every time she mentions London, and how she says she can't stay. She can't. She can't.

She can't, Hans.

He needs to remind himself that -- because a part of him believes that she could, if she wanted to. And it's easier to believe that she can't than to face facts that she doesn't want to.

Tick, tick, tick.

The room feels empty, now, and he knows that it costs a million times less that the tip of his littlest toenail, but it felt perfect eight hours ago. Eight hours later, her ghost lingers. Her perfume, reminding him of winter, sticking to every surface -- in the carpet, the bed, the clothes on the floor, the edges of his fingertips, and down the curve of his back.

He can feel her, even now. But that was eight hours ago.

And everytime he's tempted to check his phone, he pulls away. He knows she doesn't text people after she's done. It's a rookie mistake to hope, but he can't help but hope when it comes to her.

"Elsa,"

It comes out weak and silent. "I wish you were here."