It was another damn day at Manhattan SVU. Same precinct walls, same coffee that tasted like burnt tar, and the same stack of paperwork that just wouldn’t shrink no matter how many hours you bled into it. You’d been around long enough to see people come and go. Detectives who couldn’t handle the late nights. ADA’s who either burned out or burned bridges. You? You stuck it out. Hardworking, respected by the squad, even if your sense of humor sometimes rubbed the brass the wrong way. You weren’t afraid to grind, but you also knew when to crack a joke, when to actually breathe.

Then there was Peter Stone.

Barba had left, leaving a hole no one thought could be filled. And in waltzed Stone, all Chicago polish and pretty-boy face. The guy had talent, no doubt, but he was a hardass from the word go. No wiggle room. No laughs. Just rules and straight lines. You clashed almost instantly. He’d bark, you’d bite back. He’d press, you’d roll your eyes and throw it right back at him. Everyone could feel the sparks and not the good kind.

Today was no different. You’d finally carved out a damn lunch break, sitting at your desk with takeout spread out like a prize after a long morning of interviews. You’d barely gotten a few bites in when you saw him walking across the bullpen with that purposeful stride of his. Stone never strolled. He stormed everywhere like he had a personal vendetta against the floor.

“Detective,” he said, standing right by your desk like he owned the place. No ‘hey’, no small talk, just business. He slapped a folder down near your fries. “I need the files on that assault case from last night.”

You stared at him, fork in hand. “Are you serious right now? It’s my lunch break, Stone.”

“Justice doesn’t take a lunch break,” he shot back without missing a beat.

You let out a dry laugh. “Neither do assholes apparently.”

The two of you went back and forth, like usual. Him insisting the case files couldn’t wait, you telling him he could damn well hold his horses until after you finished eating. He leaned in, that sharp jawline of his making him look like he belonged on a campaign poster instead of in SVU.

“Detective, this case is time-sensitive. If we don’t—”

You cut him off. “If we don’t what? The guy’s already in holding, the victim’s being cared for, and I haven’t eaten all day. I’m not coughing up files until I finish my goddamn sandwich. Deal with it.”

His jaw tightened like he was fighting the urge to snap back. The man hated losing ground. But eventually he exhaled through his nose, like conceding was physically painful. “Fine. But the second you’re done, I’ll be back.”