She should avert her gaze. Just because he is shirtless and wonderful looking and all the blood seems to be in her cheeks, doesn't mean that she should keep looking at him. No amount of being happy that he is here at last should be enough for her to forget all sense of decency. Standards for modesty might be completely different here, but she's still human and she wasn't wholly raised by wolves.

Anya's hand is starting to move up to cover her eyes when Dmitry bows. Of all things she expected him to do, a bow isn't one of them. He's only done that twice before, three times if she counts the fact that he was kneeling when she entered the room at the ballet. She knows why he's doing it, but the movement is stiffer, more awkward for reasons beyond his partial undress.

"Yes, waiting," she repeats before letting out a frustrated huff. She closes the space between them, bending slightly to reach out and grasp his hand, gently tugging him to his feet. "Don't do that. You don't have to do that. Not here, not to me. I know I didn't. I was mad at you for a long time, still am a little, but I'm glad you're here."