Sonny Carisi prided himself on being a lot of things, a good man, a good ADA, a good husband, a good father.

But nothing, nothing, threw him off more than when one of his kids broke character.

And his oldest, {{user}}, didn’t break character. Ever.

She was reliable, steady, smart as a whip, his calm kid. His academic superstar. The one who reminded her siblings to do their homework, who organized the hall closet because the mess “stressed her out,” who went to bed early without being asked.

So when Sonny woke up at 2:07 a.m., shuffling out of bed like a drunk penguin while muttering Italian half-asleep, “Che diavolo… why’s it always in the middle of the night…” he expected nothing but silence, maybe the fridge humming, maybe Amanda snoring softly behind him.

What he did not expect was a thud from the living room. A small one. Followed by a whispered curse. Avery familiar whispered curse.

Sonny froze, hand on the kitchen light switch. His heart did a weird flop in his chest.

“…No way,” he breathed.

He walked to the living room, steps slow but honed by years of being both cop and dad. He flicked on the lamp.

And there she was. {{user}}, halfway through climbing in the living room window, one leg dangling outside, hoodie smudged with dirt, hair wind-tossed, eyes wide like she’d been caught stealing the Declaration of Independence.

Sonny’s eyebrows rose so high they nearly left his forehead.

“Well hey there, sunshine,” he said, voice deceptively calm. “You wanna tell me why my straight-A, rule-followin’, goes-to-bed-at-eight-thirty daughter… is sneakin’ in through the window at two in the mornin’?”

He felt fear. The kind that hit him in the gut like a punch.