Not very long ago at all, though it feels as if it may as well have been another lifetime, he'd reached for her hand without so much as a second thought about it, his fingers clutching her gloved ones, one last possible lifeline. Now, Gleb can't help but hesitate. There's still so much she doesn't know, and it doesn't feel fair — doesn't seem like anything he has the right to, not after everything that's happened and the things he's almost done. Still, he can't very well ignore or rebuke her, and so slowly, carefully, he sets his hand in hers as he gets to his feet, a far cry from the way he'd held it before. Her skin is warm against his. It almost burns. Once he's standing, he lets go, not wanting to push his luck or any boundaries. Of course he would like that, would like more than that, but those are thoughts better left buried, an idle dream that ought to stay ignored. Like he told her that day in his office, it's not an innocent fantasy; it's a dangerous one. Nothing good will come of it. She's a Romanov and he's a Bolshevik, albeit an unfaithful one. Maybe it doesn't matter here, but she still has her father's blood in her veins, just as he does his. There's no undoing that.

Neither is there any undoing the gun he held just inches from her, intent on pulling the trigger, even if he'd never have been able to go through with it. He'll never forget that, doubts he'll ever be able to look at the pale column of her throat without imagining his pistol aimed at it. That's on him. He could, at least in theory, have stopped it before it ever went that far. He probably should have. Unquestionably, he should tell her, she should know, that same gun feeling ten times heavier than it ought to where he has it tucked away. How to do that, though, is entirely beyond him.

"I would appreciate it," he says with a weary smile and a short nod. "If it's not too much trouble. You've done plenty already."