Good, is all he thinks when the door cracks open wider and Gela quietly steps into the room. He might have thought the same had it turned out she'd run off, but with less satisfaction, some amount of regret.

A nod is followed with, "Latch the door," and setting about ordering the pages in front of him so he can se them aside without losing his place. The cigarette he has burning is wedged between his knuckles, held with practiced ease not to get ash everywhere as he does so. There's a chair opposite his side of the desk, slightly angled aside. A second desk is on the other side of the office, but seems somewhat unused.

It smells of smoke and fainter still of dog, in here, but clean, orderly. When Marcus sets aside his work, he doesn't then go to retrieve a fresh piece of paper and quill, just shifts his ashtray to a more convenient spot.

A gesture to a brass case on the desk silently asks: would she like one?