He tensed on hearing the voice and cast a wary glance over his shoulder. Hudson was alone. Don Juan had been smoking in solitude for ten minutes, nursing a cherry-flavored cigarette he'd rolled himself so that he could shove thrice as much tobacco into it. He had just been thinking he needed to go back inside, after having experimented with and discarded a dozen different reasons for leaving early. And now here was Hudson, finding him alone on the patio and asking for a cigarette.

He nodded and shifted his weight to fish his tobacco pouch out from his interior pocket, then started rolling a(n appropriately sized) cigarette. "You won't like these," he pronounced before running his tongue along the edge of the paper to seal it. "Too sweet for your tastes."

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