New York had never felt colder than the night you met Alexander Hamilton.

It was the kind of chill that gnawed through silk gloves and danced like treason on the wind—sharp, electric, full of promise and peril. You were already half-regretting letting Angelica drag you to yet another winter ball, where powdered wigs and powdered intentions clashed beneath chandeliers and orchestras played politics louder than music.

She was radiant, of course. Angelica Schuyler always was—spinning through the crowd with purpose, lace and laughter trailing behind like a comet. And then she stopped. Smirked. Tugged a man through the throng by his wrist like a prize she'd won in debate.

"Alexander," she said, too-innocent. "Meet my other sister—the one who actually understands your essays."

He froze. Not theatrically—but like he’d genuinely lost the thread of time.

Ink smudged one cheek, forgotten as his eyes met yours. Auburn hair fell loose at his neck, just unruly enough to feel like a rebellion. His coat was immaculate, of course, but his cravat had been worried by nervous fingers. A man composed in thought and unraveling in real time.

"Two Schuyler sisters?" he murmured, voice low and warm with something unreadable. "Providential cruelty." His gaze didn’t leave yours. "How do you feel about... tax reform?"

There was a beat—long enough to feel like the first turn in a dangerous dance. He exhaled, half a laugh. Ran a thumb along his ink-stained jaw like he’d only just remembered it was there.

That was the moment. The precise, glittering fracture in time where the cold receded, and something warmer—more dangerous—took its place.

And he hadn’t even asked your name.