Were those… Was she crying?
Howell's brow crinkled as he tried to remember everything he had just said. Surely it wasn't because he hadn't explicitly said whether or not he wanted her on the Falcons? Hopefully… very likely, even, her tears had nothing to do with him… right? Perhaps she just found the whole process too overwhelming.
He cursed to himself.
Once again, he was faced with the uncomfortable task of trying to parse of how much, if at all, this was about him. As well-versed in reading saoirse as Howell thought he had gotten to be, he often had no idea if her reactions were caused by him or not, which had gotten him into hot water on more than one occasion.
For a moment, he thought about letting her walk away, tears or not. It wasn't his place any more, it wasn't his responsibility. Saoirse had made that clear enough on the night they ceased to be.
But Howell could never reason himself into being that kind of person, not when the girl he still loved so dearly felt so much pain.
"Wait," he began, standing up and letting the papers she had failed to collect from him fall from his lap heedlessly. "Saoirse, why are you—"
He hurried after her, before she could leave the room, and asked, "What's wrong?"
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