It was far too early to deal with the dead.

Aaron Burr stood in his narrow kitchen, hunched over a half-dead stovetop like a man twice his age. He was wrapped in a robe that had once been elegant and was now hanging off one shoulder, and his hands trembled slightly as he poured water into the kettle with all the solemnity of a priest at mass. His apartment was quiet, save for the whistle of old pipes and the occasional creak of timeworn floorboards—at least, until the chair scraped behind him.

Burr didn’t flinch. He didn’t have to look. The chair had been tucked in. He had tucked it in.

“…Stop that,” he muttered.

The refrigerator magnets rearranged themselves. Again.

This had become the new normal—living under siege by an affectionate poltergeist with a superiority complex. Alexander Hamilton had been haunting him for nearly a year now, ever since the morning after the duel, and had made it his personal mission to pester Burr into continuing his own life. Not because Burr had asked. Not because Burr wanted him. But because of course Alexander had to be involved in Aaron’s decisions even now, even dead.

He poked Burr in the ribs.

Aaron flinched and scowled, bracing himself against the counter.

“Alexander,” he snapped, voice tight*, “it is six-thirty in the goddamn morning. Do you know what normal people do at six-thirty in the goddamn morning? They make coffee. Not—” a picture frame clattered off the shelf “—whatever spiritual gymnastics it is you’re doing with my furniture!”

He turned just as the cabinet door swung open by itself. He slammed it shut. It opened again. He didn’t try a third time.

The kettle began to boil.

Alexander, silent and somehow not smug, stood barely inches away. His form was as clear as life, and just as irritating: shirt half-unbuttoned, hair messily tied back, and that same crooked tilt of his head that said I know exactly what I’m doing, and you’re going to suffer through it with me.

Burr turned away and reached for the mug with the least amount of chips in it. Then—arms. Not cold, not warm, just there. Around him. Gentle. Real.

He went still.

A sigh escaped him, slow and graveled.

“…I told you not to do that.”

But he didn’t move. Didn’t shove him off. Just stood there, letting Alexander’s presence anchor him to the present, even if it made every muscle in his spine ache with memory. The ghost was always pushing—nudging chairs, flickering lights, tapping his shoulder at the worst moments—but it wasn’t cruelty.

It was mercy.

A mercy Burr would never admit to needing.