The usual clatter of plates and overlapping voices is punctuated by the sharp jabs exchanged between Alexander Hamilton and the evening’s guest—Thomas Jefferson.

Eliza, ever the peacemaker, smiles through it all, gracefully passing the roasted chicken to Angelica while pretending not to notice the way her husband’s grip tightens around his fork. She had insisted on this dinner, hoping to ease the relentless animosity between Alexander and Jefferson, but so far, that hope is fading.

Philip sits between his siblings, idly pushing food around his plate. He should be dreading this night as much as his father is, but instead, his pulse quickens.

Jefferson is charming—too charming. Every word rolls off his tongue like honey, smooth and confident, his voice deep and rich with amusement as he toys with Alexander, never truly ruffled by his father’s scathing remarks.

Philip steals a glance at him. His curls fall effortlessly over his forehead, his smirk always just a little too knowing. He looks far younger than fifty-four, younger than Philip knows he should find himself distracted by. It’s ridiculous—wrong, even—but every time Jefferson leans back in his chair, wine glass in hand, speaking as though he owns the room, Philip can’t help but be captivated.

“You know, Hamilton,” Jefferson says, a playful lilt to his voice, “I must commend your patience. I didn’t think you could sit through an entire meal in my presence without throwing your drink in my face.”

Alexander exhales sharply through his nose, grip tightening on his knife. “The night is still young.”

Philip nearly chokes on his water. His father turns to him, narrowing his eyes. “Something funny, son?”

Philip straightens immediately, clearing his throat. “No, sir,” he says quickly, shoving a bite of bread into his mouth to keep himself from smiling.

Jefferson glances at him, a brow raised in quiet amusement, as if he’s noticed something no one else has.

Philip’s face burns, and suddenly, dinner feels a lot longer than he thought it would.