His mouth against the heel of her hand is surprising. A shiver runs unexpectedly up her arm and down her spine. The urge to step forward, to take that as an invitation to rest her hand on his shoulder, to pull him closer, is strong. Resisting it, Anya knows that would be acting too soon. There is so much that she hasn't said, hasn't found the words for. When she had run after Pushkin and dragged Gleb with her, she hadn't expected to be trapped in an elevator. She hadn't expected so much to change. Now it has and all she has is her hope that it isn't for forever.

"You," she answers without pause. There is no point in lingering, wondering over how to say it. "I want you."

And that is the truth. For as much as she loves Dmitry and wants him, there was something about his comment in the elevator that doesn't sit well with her. That she is something to be had, to belong to someone is well enough; all she has wanted for a long time is to belong to someone. But his quick declaration had seemed as if he was issuing a baseless ultimatum. Only one person could have her as some sort of prize. That isn't a game that Anya wants to play.

"I don't want you to fight for me. I don't want to be the spoils of some war. I didn't cry after getting out that elevator, and on the way home, and yell at a hot dog vendor for that. I didn't spend my birthday waiting in your lobby and two days after just to be a prize," this time she does brush her fingers across the bones of his cheek before letting her hand fall to rest on his chest. Her voice is softer the next time she speaks.

"I didn't mean to hurt you. You wanted me to have my choice and this is it. This is my choice. You."