Even now, it's hard not to wait for the other shoe to drop, for her declarations of love to be followed by a reason they can't be together. Gleb trusts her, of course, can't imagine why she would lie about something like this, but he's spent the past week and a half — the past month — believing that was exactly the place they were in. The last time she was here, she told him she loved him, but it wasn't a statement that existed in isolation. None of this really does, either. She's here, making a choice, but the reasons she has one to make in the first place haven't just gone away. What happens, he wonders, if Dmitry shows up at her door again, trying to get her back? What would happen if the two of them had seen each other first? It doesn't seem like a line of thought worth continuing with, but it's impossible to shut out completely, too, some doubts too deeply embedded to be disregarded at a moment's notice.
She said in the elevator that she couldn't choose between them. He wants to ask her now what's changed, how she's wound up here, but foolish as it feels, he doesn't think he's brave enough for that. She's here, standing so close, touching him like she did the night he died in her arms and the morning after when she came to his door and kissed him, and he can't find the strength to push her away. It wouldn't seem fair to do so. Even if he's seen her less than honest before, that was another time and another place, and he can hardly blame her for trying to protect herself. He has no reason now to think that she would be saying any of this if it weren't true. There would be nothing to gain, and he's never known Anya to be that sort of deceptive.
"I thought that chance was long gone," he admits, his arms settling gently around her waist. Though he doesn't pull her closer, still too uncertain for that, it's enough, for the moment, to have her solid and real and alive in front of him, nothing at all like the last time he held her. That final kiss, rough and desperate like they both had something to prove, has stayed with him these past weeks; he wants so badly to kiss her again now, but he's not sure if they're there, if he should. Whatever this is now, it isn't what it was before. Too much has changed just to pick up where they left off. Perhaps that's a good thing. Either way, it's a second chance that he's not sure he deserves, though in all fairness, he felt the same about the first one. She could have wanted nothing to do with him after he told her about Paris, and he wouldn't have been able to blame her in the slightest for that. Instead, she's here, when she could easily have been with someone else instead. While he might not know what to make of that, he does know better than to take it for granted. "I didn't even know you loved me, until..."
Trailing off, he shrugs. She'll know what he means. He didn't know she loved him until that wasn't enough, until it was too late for him to respond as he should have. "I love you terribly, Anya."
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She said in the elevator that she couldn't choose between them. He wants to ask her now what's changed, how she's wound up here, but foolish as it feels, he doesn't think he's brave enough for that. She's here, standing so close, touching him like she did the night he died in her arms and the morning after when she came to his door and kissed him, and he can't find the strength to push her away. It wouldn't seem fair to do so. Even if he's seen her less than honest before, that was another time and another place, and he can hardly blame her for trying to protect herself. He has no reason now to think that she would be saying any of this if it weren't true. There would be nothing to gain, and he's never known Anya to be that sort of deceptive.
"I thought that chance was long gone," he admits, his arms settling gently around her waist. Though he doesn't pull her closer, still too uncertain for that, it's enough, for the moment, to have her solid and real and alive in front of him, nothing at all like the last time he held her. That final kiss, rough and desperate like they both had something to prove, has stayed with him these past weeks; he wants so badly to kiss her again now, but he's not sure if they're there, if he should. Whatever this is now, it isn't what it was before. Too much has changed just to pick up where they left off. Perhaps that's a good thing. Either way, it's a second chance that he's not sure he deserves, though in all fairness, he felt the same about the first one. She could have wanted nothing to do with him after he told her about Paris, and he wouldn't have been able to blame her in the slightest for that. Instead, she's here, when she could easily have been with someone else instead. While he might not know what to make of that, he does know better than to take it for granted. "I didn't even know you loved me, until..."
Trailing off, he shrugs. She'll know what he means. He didn't know she loved him until that wasn't enough, until it was too late for him to respond as he should have. "I love you terribly, Anya."