Somehow, Geralt doesn't expect the man to take on the disposition of a kicked puppy: stepping back with practically his tail between his legs.

Maybe it reminds him of a certain bard's face after he told him to fuck off, too. (A year where he told himself it did not matter and he needed no one following him about.) Maybe he catches the lingering scars that match his that reminds him they're all dealing with shit.

Or he's simply grown soft (softer) in his old age.

"Wait." He sighs. Great. Fuck. "If you want to talk, then buy me a drink. I just—" A pause. "Prefer not to be cornered on the streets. It's been a long month."

A long year. Two. It isn't quite an open apology, but it's as close to one as comes from Geralt directed at a near-stranger.