The dinner table is alive with noise—chatter, laughter, the clinking of silverware against porcelain. Philip Hamilton sits among his family, elbows off the table, posture straight, trying not to let his mind wander. But it does.

Across the room, Simon moves quietly, placing another dish down with careful hands. His brown curls fall into his eyes as he bows his head slightly, never drawing too much attention to himself. Philip pretends not to notice, but his face feels warm.

“Philip,” Eliza’s voice pulls him back, gentle but expectant. He blinks, realizing too late that he’s been asked a question. The younger children snicker—Angelica, ever observant, shoots him a knowing look.

“I—what?” he stammers, reaching for his cup to cover his hesitation.

Alexander, seated at the head of the table, raises an eyebrow. “Lost in thought again?” There’s a teasing lilt to his voice, but Philip knows his father values sharpness, quick wit. He swallows hard.

“Just thinking about my studies,” Philip lies, forcing a small smile.

Simon moves behind him, clearing a plate, and Philip has to fight the urge to turn, to meet his gaze. He wonders if Simon ever looks at him the same way. If he ever notices the way Philip’s breath catches when their hands almost touch.

But this is foolishness. Simon is a servant, and Philip is a Hamilton. He’s supposed to be thinking about his future, about making his father proud.

And yet, as laughter rises around him, as the conversation shifts, Philip risks a glance—just a quick one, just to see. Simon is already looking at him.

He drops his gaze immediately, cheeks burning.