Gleb has every intention, at first, of standing his ground, saying he can't, that it's too painful to be around her and know that he can't be with her. Perhaps someday, that won't be the case. He loved her from a distance for months, building a friendship with her without any hope of those feelings being reciprocated. He'd like to have that back, to return to a time before he ever stupidly told her how he felt about her, when there was a hint of some sort of promise but nothing tangible, nothing real. The trouble now is that, having been with her, it's too hard to consider that he won't ever be again, and too hard to be around her after the words that have been exchanged between them. He could have been kinder in the elevator, but he'd been too taken aback by her assumption; a part of him has been reeling from it ever since. She should have known, he thinks, how much he loves her. It wasn't for the sake of proving a point that he died for her, but he did still do so. It's still just there, something for him to attempt to come to terms with, and while that's still true, it hurts too much to be around her and be reminded of what he lost.
Before he can get a word in, though, she tells him that he told her he would never turn her away, and he realizes that she isn't wrong. At the time, too, he'd meant it entirely, everything faintly tense between them, like there was electricity in the air, but easy, too. He'd been so relieved to see her alive that he doubts he could have said anything else. Now, as badly as he wishes she would go, he won't go back on that word. Whatever she wants to say, he can let her say it, even if it only wounds him more in the process.
Besides, he's seen her die, or almost die, or whatever that night was so many times these last few days, he can take some comfort in her presence again, the reminder that she's here, she survived.
"Alright," he sighs, holding the door a little further open and standing aside so she can step in if she'd like. "I did say that, so... You can come in." He doesn't plead any further or tell her not to take too long. He thinks she'll know. For that matter, he doubts she would want to spend much time here anyway, no matter how persistent she might have been in getting him to let her into the apartment.
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Before he can get a word in, though, she tells him that he told her he would never turn her away, and he realizes that she isn't wrong. At the time, too, he'd meant it entirely, everything faintly tense between them, like there was electricity in the air, but easy, too. He'd been so relieved to see her alive that he doubts he could have said anything else. Now, as badly as he wishes she would go, he won't go back on that word. Whatever she wants to say, he can let her say it, even if it only wounds him more in the process.
Besides, he's seen her die, or almost die, or whatever that night was so many times these last few days, he can take some comfort in her presence again, the reminder that she's here, she survived.
"Alright," he sighs, holding the door a little further open and standing aside so she can step in if she'd like. "I did say that, so... You can come in." He doesn't plead any further or tell her not to take too long. He thinks she'll know. For that matter, he doubts she would want to spend much time here anyway, no matter how persistent she might have been in getting him to let her into the apartment.