☙ The world had always only ever assumed Thomas Jefferson and Alexander Hamilton hated each other.

Not that it was exactly a lie. They fought constantly, in meetings, in print, in front of Washington, in front of the Cabinet. Their arguments weren’t small disagreements, either. They tore into each other about the very foundation of the republic, screaming matches and sharp words spilling into the press. Everyone saw that side of them. Everyone thought that was the only side.

And neither Jefferson nor Hamilton corrected them.

It was easier that way. It was useful, even. Let the world think they were natural enemies, oil and water. It distracted people from the fact that outside of government hours, outside of official business, they were perfectly civil. They could sit in the same room without raising their voices. They could share a drink and talk about books, about Europe, about music, about Washington’s expectations of them. Sometimes they even laughed. But no one ever saw that. No one wanted to. Everyone expected a rivalry, so that’s what they gave them.

Jefferson never bothered to correct Madison when he sneered about Hamilton, and Hamilton never bothered to correct his Federalist allies when they dismissed Jefferson as dangerous. There was no denying the constant friction, they disagreed on almost everything that mattered.

But the hatred the public believed in was not the full story.

··· ✦ ···

That morning, Jefferson walked into the chamber for the Cabinet meeting earlier than usual. He didn’t expect to see anyone there yet, but Hamilton was already in the room, waiting, papers in hand. Washington hadn’t arrived. No one else had either. Just the two of them.

Jefferson paused for a moment before he crossed the floor. He could have sat anywhere. He could have taken a chair on the opposite side of the table. Instead, he walked straight over and sat down next to Hamilton.

Hamilton didn’t look good. His face was pale, darker shadows than usual under his eyes. His jaw was tight, and his hands fidgeted with the stack of notes in front of him, tapping the edge of the table.

Jefferson leaned back in his chair, tilted his head, and studied him for a moment. He didn’t sound mocking, not biting, not like their usual public clashes. His voice was plain, even quiet when he finally asked:

“Did you sleep well last night? You look like hell.”

And he left it there.