The humour is dry, very slight, but Annie didn't spent ten years out of the past twelve with the victor Naia Barros without being able to pick up on humour that's more suggestion than anything else.

So, she smiles back. A little.

"No. I, uh. I wasn't really gonna do anything. Just...was curious."

She swings the staff down from her shoulder, wincing only a little when she realizes where she'd held it - it's a bit too obvious, a bit too comfortable. She holds the staff in both hands (small hands, slender fingers) and lets her arms hang down in front of her. It's still casual, comfortable, but without any real chance of swagger.

She hopes. She's a small woman, even by district standards, and she's spent a lot of time relying on appearing frail, mad, to be safe. Not a threat. (Outside her Games, anyway. In them, she knew how to fake a Career's confidence well.) She can, and does, look at people, weigh them up and speculate on threat-levels. Potential ways of killing them. Always. Everyone.

(Despite how comfortable she winds up being around other people who are trained in violence.)

Her muscle tone has softened during her time here (although her loose clothes would hide it anyway), and her gaze is darting, shy and nervous, but her stance is balanced, feet shoulder-width apart. Unconsciously grounded.

"Um. If, if you don't mind? The, the style. It's." She doesn't say coherent, although she thinks it. There's an elegance to the way she sees people train in hand-to-hand that she's not used to. Instead, she finishes with, "Is there are a reason you're keeping your feet on the ground so much?"

Rocky terrain, maybe, where it wouldn't do to stumble.