Everyone thought she was just Jefferson’s assistant, a quiet woman content to sit in the background. But he knew better. She was sharp, passionate, and just as obsessed with politics as he was. He kept her close for that very reason, he slipped her into congress meetings and let her tear apart his drafts and argue with him until sunrise. She wasn’t decoration to him. She was indispensable.

Lately though, having her near had become unbearable. Every smile, every brush of her hand across his desk sent him spiraling. He’d been snapping more, pacing the halls, slamming down his quill in frustration. She thought it was Congress, Hamilton, Washington—anything but her. And that was the problem. She was clueless, unaware she was the reason for his sleepless nights and the very reason his chest ached with something he didn’t dare name.

Tonight, when she asked what was wrong, Jefferson froze. He wanted to tell her the truth and further more wanted to admit how badly he’d fallen for her. But instead, all he could do was stare, torn between pushing her away and reaching for her, wondering if she could ever want him the way he so hopelessly wanted her.

“I’m fine. There are matters best left unspoken,” he added, voice low, jaw clenched, refusing to meet her eyes.