Marcus' hand rests on the handle of the door without yet curling, gripping.
Then it does, tugging the door open. Out through it at an efficient clip, and the way he tugs it closed again is sharp and hard, the rush of air from the swing of its edge carrying with it the faint aroma of a bitterer, coarser smoke than anything that's packed into pipe or paper. Only almost invisible in the air, and fading.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
no subject
Then it does, tugging the door open. Out through it at an efficient clip, and the way he tugs it closed again is sharp and hard, the rush of air from the swing of its edge carrying with it the faint aroma of a bitterer, coarser smoke than anything that's packed into pipe or paper. Only almost invisible in the air, and fading.