Philip Hamilton swings his legs under the chair, his small boots barely scraping the floor. The candlelight flickers across the papers scattered on his father’s desk, illuminating ink-stained hands and tired eyes that haven’t looked up in far too long.

Philip knows his father is busy—he’s always busy. Letters, speeches, numbers he doesn’t quite understand. But tonight, something feels different. Tonight, Philip has something important to say.

He shifts in his seat, clearing his throat. No response. His father’s quill keeps scratching against parchment, faster than Philip can read.

“Papa?”

Alexander exhales sharply, setting his quill down, finally looking up. “Yes, son?” His voice is kind but distant, like he’s still half-lost in whatever world exists between those pages.

Philip hesitates. The words are right there, caught between his teeth. He could talk about school, about the letters he traced in ink today, about the boy who called him smart, about the way his face felt warm and strange afterward. He could tell his father everything—if only he knew how.

Instead, he just grips the edge of his chair and blurts out the first thing that comes to mind.