Hamilton puring at him, his daughter suckling, those contractions slowly easing as his body works to knit itself back together.

"Our daughter," Burr slurs, as he sinks more against Hamilton, Theo cradled between them. He's tired, but he doesn't want to crush her. But his eyes are closing, and he grasps at Hamilton's hand, desperate.

"Watch her," he says, "don't let her out of your sight," and then he is loosening, into Hamilton's scent, her scent, which is nothing more but damp and Burr himself. And sweetness, something sweet.

"Theodosia," he says, closes his eyes.