Anna doesn’t really know what he’s doing, and at first she thinks maybe he’s going to get out some kind of weapon because he still thinks she’s not who she says she is, but he comes out with a cigarette, and lights it, and, what? Since when does he smoke? (Which isn’t something she wants to think about, since there’s a huge gap of time during which he could have taken up that habit, and she knows it.) She doesn’t exactly make a face at that, not a grossed-out face at least - it’s more of a puzzled look, which she pushes away as fast as she can because she doesn’t want him to see it (although she’s not really sure why, since that doesn’t make any sense at all).
He sort of snorts or something, when she says it’s her name, and maybe he’s laughing but it’s without any humor, if he is (she thinks she would have known what it meant, before, but before it wouldn’t have been aimed at her, not like this, and she did that, she caused this), and she just fidgets, not really sure what she’s supposed to do about it, or say or... anything else.
And she wonders for the first time if maybe coming here was a mistake. Because something like this... if he even ever believes her, really believes her, it’s not just going to be like it was. It can’t be, and she wishes it could but for all that she’s too optimistic sometimes, she does know better than that. Or maybe she’s not an optimist anymore, since every time she’s thought things were good they’ve fallen apart - not that she’s a pessimist now, God no, but, still. There’s no possible way this is going to work the way it did, the way it should.
And anything less than that is going to be ridiculously painful, probably for both of them.
If she had any sense, she’d turn around and leave right now, before he gets it, before he believes her, so that doesn’t happen. But no one’s ever accused Anna of being too sensible, before.
Her babbling gets a jaw-drop response, that must mean he remembers Fido... and maybe that he believes her. He’s staring at her, and there’s something in his expression that makes her eyes burn and makes her want to run over there and hug him, like she used to do, but she still isn’t sure if that’s okay, if that’s safe (and as soon as she thinks that part she feels a little sick, remembers missing the feeling of safe, of home for years even when she had a place that was “home” for a year or more at a time, because home still comes attached with memories of late nights and coffee and talking and laughing for hours about nothing at all).
“... shit.”
She fidgets, isn’t sure what she’s supposed to say to that, can’t keep looking at him because she’s going to cry if she does.
“I’m sorry,” which is about as useful as throwing a glass of water on a forest fire, probably.
She shouldn’t have come here... but she couldn’t have stayed away, either.