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Howell was not certain if he was going to open the door or not.

He didn't even know who was knocking on the door when his name was first called. His thoughts did flit to Saoirse, but it was difficult to say if he was imagining it, being that she had crossed his mind more than once in the last hour or so. When his name was called again, he had no doubt.

Though their abrupt break up, if indeed that's what it had been, saddened him, there was more anger underlying his grief. After she'd told him about her family, after she'd revealed, uncoerced, her old wand sinisterly sent through the post… Howell had thought, finally, he had gotten through to her. He had finally convinced Saoirse that he could be trusted, could be leaned upon. There had been moments, certainly, where tensions had arisen between the two of them, but he'd thought with almost delight that it was a normal problem to have, something they could always work through.

What had played out that night he and Jago effectively moved out was everything to the contrary of that.

He had kept to himself in the days leading up to shipping out, and had remained quiet and surly since arriving in New York. Had he been forced to share a suite with someone like Michal, that attitude would have presented a problem, but Oliver Comstock was as quiet and surly as Howell was, so their room had actually become something of a haven in the noisy, unsettling city.

When the knock sounded, Oliver had been asleep, probably, on his bed. Howell, still in his gear from earlier in the day, had been sitting in a chair, startled out of a reverie. He looked at the wooden surface for what felt like an eternity before making a decision. Standing slowly, he made his way to the door and laid his hand on the knob, resting there for a moment before he grasped it and turned.

As the door opened, he saw Saoirse's face for the first time in three weeks.

He leaned against the frame and watched her expressionlessly.