Perhaps it was the particular way in which the door had just closed. And, as if its sharp note was filled with all the hatred and disappointment Buffy expected to be met with, she suppressed a wince as it sounded across the relatively quiet tea house. Her fingertips touched the lip of her mug, she mourned how lukewarm her tea had become, and she gathered her wits about her as she stood from her chair. She didn't have to look; she simply knew. Anya was here.

Buffy raised a flattened palm, canting it once in an almost-wave. A signal. An invitation. But she didn't look happy about it.