If he notices the annoyance emanating from her, Geralt says nothing of it. He does not frankly have the time nor patience for what registers in his mind as childishness. Perhaps that's uncharitable; but he's still raw after what she saw, after the small cracks he's allowed her to have, and if anything that's only made him shutter the windows more firmly than ever.

He isn't sure what to think about her anymore. And he doesn't know what she thinks of him, either. At least before, the lines were clear. Now it's suddenly grown complicated. Part of him wants to push them back to where they were: tense, wanting nothing to do with each other nor to have any understanding of one another. That's not possible. She knows now, these pieces of him he shows to almost no one. It leaves him in a limbo state he's ignoring because it's easier than—what. Talking to her about it?

Essentially.

He's almost grateful for the spikes she triggers. Another impossibility: he had not heard a switch, a click, no gears. She had simply brushed it with her foot.

Shit. He turns around, but what path was open before ahead and to the east are abruptly closed.

He touches the spikes with a thumb. The shaft is rough, covered in tiny smaller points along. He can fit between them. It just won't be pleasant. What choice have they got?

He goes.