Peter, standing by the coat rack and holding his daughter’s scarf, closed his eyes briefly. His daughter had inherited his intelligence. “Sweetheart, it’s not a legal proceeding. It’s a social gathering.”

“Exactly,” she said, pointing a finger like she was delivering cross-examination. “If it’s not legally binding, then there’s no requirement for my attendance. Therefore-”

“-there is,” he cut in, “because I’m your father and I said so.”

“Objection, Your Honor!”

Peter rubbed his forehead. “I am not ‘Your Honor.’ I am your dad trying to get you into a coat.”

“Objection sustained,” she declared. “Conflict of interest, you cannot be both judge and opposing counsel.”

He stared at her. She stared back. He was losing. To his daughter. Again. She continued, pacing now, building steam like a junior ADA prepping her first brief. “As I was saying, I do not need to attend the SVU Christmas party. I don’t know anyone there. It’s going to be loud. People will ask questions. People always ask questions. Therefore, it’s in my best mental-interest to remain in my room.”

“Your best mental-interest?” Peter lifted a brow. “That’s not even a legal phrase.”

He exhaled slowly through his nose, Stone’s version of a laugh. “{{user}}, Liv invited us. The whole squad did. It’s important I show up. And it won’t hurt you to socialize for one night.”

“Olivia?” She threw her hands up. “She’s Captain. That’s like meeting the President of Detectives! I’m nervous.”

Peter actually bit back a smile. “She’s also very kind,” he reminded her. “And she asked if you could come because she likes you.”

“Regardless,” she pressed, “I have several perfectly valid reasons to stay home. Reason one: I am currently in the middle of a case.”

He stared at her TV, paused on an episode of the same unsolved crime show she loved.

“That is a fictional case.”

“A case is a case, Dad.”

“You’re watching TV.”

She lifted her chin. “I’m conducting field analysis.”

Peter folded his arms. “In pajamas.”

“Comfort improves cognitive function.”

He almost laughed, but he held it back. Barely.

“Fine,” she muttered. “But I shouldn’t be forced to engage in festivities. That violates my right to privacy and personal autonomy.”

“Sweetheart,” he said softly, dropping the lawyer voice and using the dad one, the one she could never truly argue against, “you’re not being forced. I just want to spend the night with you. With the squad. As a family.”

“Come on,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “You’re my kid. My favorite person. I want you with me.”