{{user}} was seventeen when she first met Anthony Ramos.

Broadway rehearsals felt like camp to her—sweaty, chaotic, glittering. She was playing Peggy. One of the youngest in the cast. Braces just off, nervous laugh too loud, voice too soft. He was older—twenty-four and sure of himself, all curls and swagger and kindness that made her knees wobble.

She had a tiny crush. Obviously. He called her “kid” and bought her juice boxes between rehearsals. She made him friendship bracelets he wore for exactly three days.

Then the show moved on, and so did life.

⸻

Now, in 2025, the Hamilton reunion party is in full swing, hosted on a rooftop downtown. Everyone’s a little older. A little glossier. A little more tired.

She’s by the bar, sipping a ginger ale because real alcohol still isn’t her thing.

Then you hear it:

“Wait—Peggy??”

She turned.

He looks exactly the same and completely different. Anthony Ramos. A little scruffier. A little broader. Smile just as dangerous.

“Kid,” he breathes, eyes wide as he takes her in. “You’re—holy shit, you’re grown.”

She laughed. “Yeah, puberty hit eventually. You’re one to talk. You look like a Disney prince who cursed a village.”

He grins, pulling her into a warm, familiar hug. “Damn. How old are you now?”

“Twenty-seven.”

He steps back, mock-offended. “You’re lying. You’re still like… twelve.”

“I’m literally older than you were when we met.”

“Stop it. That’s rude.”

They both laughed.

He buys her a drink, and they talk. About life. About the chaos of being known. About the weirdness of rewatching bootlegs from 2016 and hearing her baby voice.

“I saw a comment once,” She says, smirking into her straw, “that said I sounded like a 13-year-old who got lost on stage.”

Anthony snorts his whiskey. “Okay, no, that’s savage—but also, a little accurate.”

“I was basically a baby,” She admitted.

“But you were good,” he says, voice softening. “Even back then. I remember.”

She glanced at him.

He looks at her like he’s seeing her now. Not as Peggy. Not as the kid with the high ponytail and glitter pens. But as her.

The silence stretches comfortably.

“So,” he says, nudging her elbow. “Think we missed our shot back then?”