The room was dimly lit, the shutters drawn against the daylight that tried to press in through the slats. Dust curled like ash in the still air.

Alexander lay on the bed, pale and hollow-eyed, propped carefully against worn pillows Burr had fluffed more times than he could count. The bandages around his side were clean—changed that morning. Burr always changed them himself. Even when Alexander trembled and hissed through clenched teeth, Burr’s hands stayed steady, his expression unreadable.

He moved slowly now, kneeling beside the bed with a damp cloth. The fever had broken days ago, but Burr still pressed the cloth gently to Alexander’s brow, smoothing back the damp, curling hair like it was something precious. There was a tremor in Alexander’s fingers as they shifted slightly—reaching without aim—and Burr caught the hand at once. He cradled it against his own cheek, let his eyes flutter closed for a moment as if in prayer.

He hadn’t brought him to Dr. Hosack, or his family. He hadn’t even let the city see. The newspapers had printed his death months ago. A clean, final end to a messy legacy.

But Burr knew better.

He remembered the way Alexander had gasped when he’d crumpled—remembered the horror that overtook him before his feet had even carried him forward. The duel had been real, the shot had been real. But the death had been a lie, a desperate, selfish miracle Burr hadn’t dared correct.

He had stitched the wound himself with trembling fingers slick with blood. He had burned his gloves afterward. He had carried Alexander—his rival, his obsession, his only constant—up the stairs of his home in the dead of night like a stolen relic, like a treasure unearthed too late.

And now Alexander needed him. Completely.

Burr brought the bowl closer, coaxing the limp man upright with practiced care, sliding a supporting arm beneath his back. Alexander’s head lolled briefly onto his shoulder before Burr guided the cup to his lips. He drank a little, and Burr smiled—just barely. He wiped the corner of Alexander’s mouth with a thumb and let the silence settle again, thick and warm. Alexander’s weight was lighter than it used to be. His voice was a whisper now, when it came at all. He hadn’t stood on his own in weeks.

But Burr didn’t mind. He bathed him. He carried him. He fed him, clothed him, combed his hair, held him through the shivering nights. There was something sacred in the work, something beyond guilt or justification. He didn’t write letters anymore. He didn’t receive guests. The world could mourn a dead man if it liked. Burr had him here, in the quiet folds of his solitude. Broken, but breathing.

He watched Alexander’s chest rise and fall with each slow breath, his own fingers still curled around the frail hand. He knew he should feel shame. Should feel grief for Eliza, for the children, for the life he’d ripped away. But he didn’t.

He only felt the slow, steady rhythm of the life he had saved. The life he refused to let go of. The man he had shot—his Alexander, and no one else’s.