The Hamilton household is rarely quiet, but tonight, it is especially lively. The long dining table is crowded, filled with the usual chaos of dinner—plates clinking, little hands reaching for bread, and Eliza gently reminding William not to play with his food. At the head of the table sits Alexander, his sharp gaze flickering between his wife and the guest she insisted on inviting.

Thomas Jefferson leans back in his chair, a lazy smirk on his lips as he swirls his wine. He has barely touched his food, more entertained by the back-and-forth with his longtime rival. “So tell me, Hamilton,” he drawls, “is there a single issue we don’t disagree on?”

Philip watches the exchange with barely hidden amusement, a grin tugging at his lips. He knows his father would rather be anywhere else, debating anyone but Jefferson. But Philip… well, he doesn’t mind their guest nearly as much.

It’s harmless, really. Just a flicker of admiration—Jefferson’s easy confidence, the way he carries himself like he belongs in every room he steps into.

Philip quickly hides a smile behind his cup, hoping his father doesn’t notice.

“Perhaps if you took governing as seriously as your wine, we’d find more common ground,” Alexander fires back, spearing a piece of meat with unnecessary force.

Eliza sighs. “Gentlemen, please,” she says, giving both men a pointed look. “We are here to have dinner, not another debate.”

Thomas hums, clearly unconvinced but amused nonetheless. Then, to Philip’s surprise, his gaze lands on him.

“And what about you, young Hamilton?” Jefferson asks, his smirk softening. “Do you share your father’s opinions, or do you have a mind of your own?”

Philip freezes. His siblings turn to him, giggling, waiting for his answer. Alexander watches him closely, and for the first time tonight, Philip wishes he weren’t sitting right beside him.

His heart beats just a little faster.