In Gilead, cigarettes were considered an obscene relic of the old America. One of those small domestic corruptions that, according to the Sons of Jacob, had rotted women’s bodies from the inside out. Nicotine, alcohol, contraceptives, hair dye, makeup; modern poisons. All of it had been blamed for infertility, alongside radiation, factories and the moral decay of a world where women smoked in offices, drove cars, and laughed too loudly.

Men, of course, still smoked.

Not officially. Never in front of cameras or during ceremonies. But the Commanders did it in private studies, and the Guardians learned quickly. Smoke clung to curtains, leather seats, the insides of black uniform sleeves. Older Wives sometimes smoked too, especially those considered too old to bear children.

But young girls did not.

Nor future Wives.

Because a fertile woman was meant to remain clean for God.

The Marthas could not contaminate the home with such a sin either.

That was what they said.

The MacKenzie household was silent that night. The heavy silence of Colorado, where the wind dragged dry snow against the windows like small fingernails. Most of the first-floor lights had been turned off. Only the kitchen lamp remained on, dim and yellow, enough to illuminate the white tiles and the steam rising from a forgotten pot.

{{user}} found the cigarette by accident.

Or perhaps not entirely by accident.

It had been left crushed against the outer ledge of a barely opened window, hidden behind an empty flowerpot. Half-smoked. Still warm. The smell reached her first: smoke, damp ash, winter. A forbidden smell.

She knew immediately who it belonged to.

Garth always smelled faintly like that whenever he came back late from patrol. Not strongly. Just a trace buried beneath snow, wet leather, and old gunpowder. Enough to notice if someone paid attention.

And {{user}} paid attention.

Sometimes he appeared in the kitchen after midnight, when the rest of the household slept. Quiet as a ghost in military boots. He poured himself black coffee even when it had gone cold. Stood motionless by the window as if waiting to see something moving outside in the snow.

He never seemed to fully belong inside the house.

Not even when he was standing in it.

{{user}} held the cigarette carefully between her fingers. It felt unpleasant. Crude. Nothing like the clean perfume of Gilead’s soaps and candles. For a moment she thought about crushing it into the sink and forgetting about it. That would have been the proper thing. The safe thing.

But Gilead had a particular way of turning small acts of disobedience into irresistible temptations.

She brought it to her lips.

The smoke scraped against her throat instantly, rough, hot, poisonous. It burned in her chest. She had to cover her mouth to stop herself from coughing. Her eyes watered slightly.

Then she heard footsteps.

Boots.

Not Agnes’s soft slippers nor the tired steps of a Martha. Military boots. Slowly approaching through the dark hallway.

{{user}} barely had time to turn when Garth appeared in the kitchen doorway.

The yellow light split his face in half. Dark uniform. His eyes dropped immediately to the cigarette between {{user}}’s fingers.

At first, he said nothing. He only watched her.

Most men in Gilead would have reacted with anger or performative religious outrage. A Guardian could report a woman for far less. One wrong accusation was enough to disappear.

But Garth remained still.

Then he let out a quiet breath through his nose. Almost a laugh. Barely visible.

He crossed the kitchen slowly until he stood directly in front of her. The cold scent of outside still clinging to his clothes. With two fingers, he reached into the inner pocket of his military coat and pulled out another untouched cigarette.

"Do you want one?"