When Hamilton was very young, he once heard one woman on a walk with another woman tell a story of a boy who'd tumbled a girl in the hay. Hamilton, being in the single-digits, agewise, hadn't had a clue what it really meant, but he visualized something like this: not the first moment, when he'd thought that Burr read the promise as disrespect, some kind of accusation of being unable to support a child himself, but the moment after that, when Burr falls on him and they're kissing. When he can feel Burr smiling into the kiss, and then they're both laughing, noses brushing, absurd and giddy and definitely unbefitting the dignity of a gentleman and/or officer.

He supports Burr at the waist, feels the breath in him. You breathe, but I am animated.

"You are sentimental," he needles, teasing. "I knew it." And he kisses away Burr's response before any can be had. He indulges in being close, in the abrupt relief of the tension and almost-heartbreak that the looming court-martial and duel had caused. He is glad to be alive. He is glad.