Chapter Text
Washington woke first.
I knew because the arm around my waist tightened subtly, like he’d become aware of me in stages—warmth, breath, the shape of me pressed against him—before memory settled in.
I didn’t open my eyes yet.
For one selfish moment, I just listened to the quiet.
No confusion.
No dread.
No wondering.
Just his heartbeat under my ear, slow and steady in a way it had never been in the chaos of camp life.
“We should get up,” he murmured eventually, voice warm and still rough with sleep.
I smiled against his chest. “We should.”
Neither of us made the slightest effort.
Sunlight leaked through the curtains in thin gold stripes, landing across the tangled blankets, our clothes abandoned halfway to the chair, and Washington—George—lying beside me with soft morning lines creasing the corners of his eyes.
He looked… unguarded.
Almost peaceful.
I shifted, turning to face him. His hand came up instinctively, brushing a thumb across my cheek in that way he’d done only once the night before—and apparently wasn’t done doing it.
“Morning,” I whispered.
A small, honest smile curved his mouth. “Good morning.”
It still startled me, seeing that expression on him.
Seeing him without his armor.
His hair was loose, falling over his forehead in a way I suspected Congress would have written stern letters about.
His shirt—somehow he’d kept it halfway on—hung open at the collar.
His voice was lower than usual, like he wasn’t yet ready to climb back into the role of General.
“Sleep well?” he asked.
“Better than I have in months.”
His face softened at that. “Good.”
I reached up, letting my fingers trace the line of his jaw. “And you?”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “Better than I had any right to.”
He kissed my palm before lowering my hand back to his chest, where it rose and fell with each slow breath.
No mystery now.
No fear about what he felt.
No confusion about what I wanted.
Just us, in the hush of a morning that felt impossibly gentle.
“Benedict,” George said after a moment, voice thoughtful, “I meant what I wrote.”
“I know.”
“And I… mean this, too.” He tightened his arm around me. “Last night. This morning. Being with you like this.”
I met his gaze, steady and warm. “So do I.”
His relief was subtle but unmistakable, like a knot he’d been carrying for months had finally loosened.
He dropped his forehead lightly against mine—a soft greeting, an anchor, a promise.
But then—
A distant voice hollered from outside the cabin:
“HAMILTON, I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU TRY TO BREAK IN AGAIN—”
Followed by Lafayette’s distressed, “Mon ami, you cannot pick a lock with a spoon!”
Then Laurens: “I TOLD you they’d be asleep, we need to give them space!”
Then Hamilton: “I JUST WANT TO MAKE SURE THEY’RE ALIVE—”
George closed his eyes, and I felt his chest expand with a slow, world-weary inhale.
“Your friends,” he said, “are going to be the death of me.”
I laughed into his shoulder. “They mean well.”
He sighed. “I know.”
Then—quietly, almost bashfully—“I was hoping to have you to myself a little longer.”
My breath caught.
“Then keep me a little longer,” I whispered.
He did.
He kissed me again—slow, unhurried, morning-soft—and for a handful of heartbeats, the world outside disappeared.
No orders.
No titles.
No war.
Just George.
And me.
Eventually, he pulled back with a low groan.
“We should get dressed,” he muttered. “Before Hamilton decides to enter through the chimney.”
I snorted. “You joke, but—”
“Yes. I know.”
He pressed a final kiss to my hair before reluctantly sitting up. “God help me.”
I dragged myself upright beside him, pulling on my shirt while he reached for his uniform coat.
“George,” I said quietly.
He turned.
“I don’t regret coming back.”
His expression softened into something I suspected I might only ever see in private—gentle, grateful, unbearably sincere.
“Neither do I,” he said. “Not for a moment.”
And before we stepped back into the world, into titles and duties and the chaos of six incredibly nosy men outside the door, he rested his forehead against mine again.
One last quiet moment.
One last slow breath.
Then he whispered, “Come. Let us face them.”
We opened the door together.
By the time George and I stepped outside, the morning had fully settled over camp—thin frost on the grass, distant clatter of pots, a few soldiers already drilling on the field.
Normal.
Completely normal.
Which was almost absurd, considering the night we’d just had.
Our “squad,” as Hamilton insisted on calling them, wasn’t waiting on the porch with binoculars or climbing the walls or chanting “KISS AGAIN” like the night before.
No—thank God.
They were gathered a respectful distance away, pretending very hard that they weren’t waiting for us.
Hamilton was arguing with Burr.
Laurens looked like he hadn’t slept much.
Lafayette was rubbing his temples.
Hercules stared into the distance like he was reliving some battle trauma that had nothing to do with us.
And for once, not a single one of them looked particularly nosy.
Just… tired. Distracted. Human.
George paused beside me on the steps. “They seem preoccupied.”
I squinted. “They usually are. They’re all a mess.”
He hummed in agreement. “Convenient.”
I bumped his shoulder—just lightly, discreetly. “Helps us stay under the radar.”
He gave a small, approving nod.
We walked toward the group, careful to keep the space between us regulation-appropriate. George slipped seamlessly back into General mode—shoulders square, expression composed, hands clasped behind him. The transformation was almost startling if not for the warmth in his eyes when no one else could see.
Lafayette was the first to notice us.
“Ah—General.” He straightened quickly, tone perfectly polite. “We were about to… ah… check if you needed anything.”
George gave him the most diplomatic version of no, you weren’t.
“I am quite capable, thank you.”
Lafayette flushed. “Oui. Of course.”
Hamilton perked up—but not in the way I feared.
He just looked exhausted.
“General,” he said, then nodded to me. “Benedict.”
That was it. No wiggling eyebrows. No commentary. No dramatics.
I blinked.
Was Hamilton sick?
Laurens tugged him back by the sleeve. “Don’t start. Not today.”
“I didn’t start anything!” Hamilton hissed.
Burr pinched the bridge of his nose. “Can we please just—focus? For once?”
George shot me a subtle glance that said, Are they always like this?
I gave an equally subtle nod that meant, This is actually a good day.
Hercules cleared his throat. “We uh… didn’t know if you two wanted breakfast, but we saved some anyway.”
George answered like nothing unusual had ever happened. “Thank you. I’ll be taking breakfast privately.”
Hercules nodded. “Yeah. Makes sense.”
Laurens shifted awkwardly. “And if you, Benedict, need space, or time, or… anything—we’re around. But we’re not… involved.”
He hesitated.
“…in any way.”
This, coming from Laurens, was practically a blood oath.
Hamilton opened his mouth—Laurens shot him a warning glare so sharp it could’ve been filed down into a bayonet.
Hamilton shut his mouth.
I almost laughed.
George cleared his throat. “I trust that what occurred last night remains between this group alone.”
Six solemn nods.
Even Hamilton looked serious.
“We’re not stupid,” Burr said. “The army can’t know.”
“No,” George said firmly. “They cannot.”
I felt the weight of that settle over all of us.
Not shame.
Not panic.
Just… reality.
Washington spoke again, voice calm. “Lieutenant Arnold will continue to serve at my headquarters. His return will be explained as a necessity. Nothing more.”
Laurens raised a hand. “Just to be clear—we won’t even joke? Not even once?”
“John,” Lafayette murmured, “you saw the man be happy for the first time in years. Do not ruin this.”
Laurens lowered his hand sheepishly.
Hamilton kicked a rock. “We can keep a secret. We’re not animals.”
Burr: “Hamilton, you literally screamed through the window last night.”
“Yes, well,” Hamilton sniffed, “I was overwhelmed.”
Laurens groaned. “Oh my God—”
George turned to me, hiding a smile, voice lowering just enough that only I heard it.
“Are you certain you want to keep associating with them?”
I smothered a grin. “Yes. Unfortunately for me.”
His eyes warmed. “Unfortunately for me as well.”
We ate breakfast in his office—quietly, privately, comfortably.
No tension.
No awkward aftermath.
George kept stealing glances at me when he thought I wasn’t looking.
I kept noticing.
When we finished, he stood, brushing crumbs from his sleeves. “You and I will need to speak later about arrangements. Personal and otherwise.”
I felt my face heat. “Arrangements?”
He raised one eyebrow—a subtle tease. “Nothing improper. Merely… logistics.”
That didn’t help.
At all.
He softened. “But later. There is time.”
I nodded, pulse fluttering.
Then—
A polite knock.
Lafayette’s voice on the other side: “General, the officers are assembling for the morning briefing.”
George sighed like a man already tired of pretending to be impervious.
“Very well,” he called. Then to me—quietly—“Stay as long as you wish. My quarters are yours again.”
My breath caught.
He hesitated, then added—soft, low—“Take anything you need.”
I swallowed. “I already have.”
He paused.
Met my eyes.
And for a heartbeat, the world narrowed to just us again.
Then he straightened, mask sliding into place. “Until later, Benedict.”
“Later,” I murmured.
He left with the dignity of a man who absolutely did not have his heart tangled up in last night’s memory.
And as soon as the door shut behind him—
Hamilton shouted from across camp:
“IS IT SAFE TO TALK ABOUT OUR OWN PROBLEMS NOW OR ARE WE STILL PRETENDING NOTHING’S HAPPENED?”
I groaned into my hands.
The good news was:
They weren’t obsessed with us.
The bad news was:
They were still them.
And we had a war to fight.
A secret to keep.
And a new, fragile something between us that was no longer uncertain.
Just unspoken.
And real.