Gesturing for him to shut the door behind him, Anya skirts around the edges of the room towards the small kitchen. There is so much to share, so much strangeness that she hardly knows where to begin. At the beginning, she supposes, which is where she already has. But there is so much and often explaining it leads to more questions that she can't quite get past.

Gleb is patient, far more understanding than any of the other Bolshevik guards or soldiers she had met. He had said that he was her friend and she believed him. Friendship has value. It's important in these trying and difficult times. It can provide strength where there is otherwise weakness.

Her hand is on the frame of the entryway to the kitchen when the choked out words reach her. Pausing she turns towards him, a confused frown knitting across her features. "Were you?" Now it is Anya's turn to be thoroughly confused. "But you mentioned Paris, so I hadn't thought we'd seen each other again. How could we have just been together?"

Against her will a faint blush stains her cheeks, thinking of the pair of them together seems like such a private concept when it could really mean anything. By the way he's dressed, she doesn't think it was formal Soviet business though. The clothes wouldn't allow for it. "Did I find you in Paris after? Or was it back in Peters — I mean Leningrad?" Holding up a hand she waves slightly to pause her own thoughts let alone his. "Wait, please let me get the tea started."

With that she disappears into the kitchen, hastily filling the kettle with water.