With a look torn between irritation and apology, wound up as he is and for being as wound up as he is, he lets Merritt go, then continues to move down the hallway. He stops a handful of steps later, in front of one of the many, uniform doors, and, after casting a look back in his direction, reaches for the handle, fore and middle fingers rubbing against his thumb. A spark jumps from his hand as he touches it to the handle, and when he tries it afterwards, it opens without effort.

Peeking his head in, his shoulders tense all at once, posture unmistakable as wishing he had his gun in this instance, more comfortable with it, when clearing a room, than anything else. When he finds it empty, he relaxes again but again not in entirety, and steps inside. He doesn't bother making sure Merritt follows, not after that protest, and not when there's more to check, to make sure they're alone, than just the tiny living area the room immediately opens into.