It's out before he knows it, before he has the wit to swallow it or to soften his tone - his head is still jangling with dissonant echoes, that curt denial, that wild look, that incongruously graceful movement - "Wait." He peels away from the storefront in her wake, and he says it a third time, with his heart in his throat: "Wait."
It sounds quieter in Russian, somehow; steadier. Less like a plea.