She's here. It still feels unearned, like a gift meant to go to a different recipient, like a mistake has been made somewhere that he doesn't particularly want to correct but probably ought to. He wants to ask why she's here, why him, but he doesn't dare disturb whatever this fragile, tenuous peace is. She's too close for him to push her away, her hand against the back of his neck sending a shiver down his spine. Besides, she's right; she is stubborn, and if she's made up her mind, he has no business trying to unmake it for her. She asked him moments ago why he wouldn't let them be happy. Gleb can't say for sure if they ever will be, if this chance will lead where he wants it to, or if they'll be able to regain what they had so briefly and then lost, but he doesn't want to be what stands in their way.
The odds of their being here at all seem so slim, so unlikely, and he suspects that if they lose their chance this time, there won't be any getting it back. Too many odds have been defied. They're both alive when they weren't meant to be. He thinks they might as well make the most of that, and if this is what that entails, it's worth holding onto with both hands. When he walked away from her in Paris, he had no choice, or rather, they had both already made one, and there was only one direction to go from there. When he sent her away the last time he was here, he believed she'd already made up her mind to be with someone else, or at least that those feelings would have interfered with what was between the two of them. Now, it's just them, and she must know what this means to him. She's never seemed to be intentionally cruel. If anything, her kindness — an uncommon soft word of gratitude between strangers — was part of what he found so entrancing about her from the start. Lying about this would accomplish nothing but making an already complicated situation even more so. He can't imagine that she would.
Just looking at her makes something in his chest ache. Absently, Gleb wonders how apparent that must be as he nods, swallowing hard as he looks down at her. "You're here," he echoes, his own voice as quiet as hers. "Anya, I want..." He can't quite say it. The distance between them is so slight now, though, that he thinks it must speak for itself. Kissing her would be the easiest thing in the world, and yet he still doesn't know if he's supposed to, if that's a possibility again.
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The odds of their being here at all seem so slim, so unlikely, and he suspects that if they lose their chance this time, there won't be any getting it back. Too many odds have been defied. They're both alive when they weren't meant to be. He thinks they might as well make the most of that, and if this is what that entails, it's worth holding onto with both hands. When he walked away from her in Paris, he had no choice, or rather, they had both already made one, and there was only one direction to go from there. When he sent her away the last time he was here, he believed she'd already made up her mind to be with someone else, or at least that those feelings would have interfered with what was between the two of them. Now, it's just them, and she must know what this means to him. She's never seemed to be intentionally cruel. If anything, her kindness — an uncommon soft word of gratitude between strangers — was part of what he found so entrancing about her from the start. Lying about this would accomplish nothing but making an already complicated situation even more so. He can't imagine that she would.
Just looking at her makes something in his chest ache. Absently, Gleb wonders how apparent that must be as he nods, swallowing hard as he looks down at her. "You're here," he echoes, his own voice as quiet as hers. "Anya, I want..." He can't quite say it. The distance between them is so slight now, though, that he thinks it must speak for itself. Kissing her would be the easiest thing in the world, and yet he still doesn't know if he's supposed to, if that's a possibility again.