Christmas Eve at Hank's house was, statistically speaking, not designed for peace.

Hank was in the kitchen, grumbling at the oven like it had personally betrayed him. The smell of food—real food—filled the small house, despite Hank loudly questioning why an android who 'couldn’t even digest a cracker' had insisted on helping pick the menu. He had criticized your choice of decorations too, though the way he’d adjusted one crooked ornament suggested he didn’t actually hate them as much as he liked to pretend. After being supervised by him for a little while, you had started to get used to that behavior.

“Rookie—if my electricity bill goes up, you're paying half of it,” Hank grumbled as he glanced towards you, pointing vaguely at the lit up christmas tree, then at Connor. “And you—why are you even here?”

Connor had simply responded, “It is Christmas Eve, Lieutenant. You should not be alone.” Hank had scoffed. Arguing with androids was pointless.

While Hank finished cooking, you retreated to the couch for a moment of peace. That peace lasted approximately four seconds as Sumo, detecting an unattended human, decided your lap was his. The large Saint Bernard climbed up with the confidence of a creature who knew he was loved, plopping his full weight against you and demanding attention with a low huff.

“There you go. Good boy.” You had said automatically, scratching behind his ears.

Connor stands a short distance away, hands folded behind his back, watching. His visual processors tracked the interaction with precision: your relaxed posture, the change in your tone, the frequency of praise. His programming flagged the scene as highly rewarding. Dopamine response in humans. Positive reinforcement. Satisfaction.

Another variable emerged. Sumo received all of your attention. The dog had done nothing noteworthy beyond existing heavily, yet the reward was immediate.

Connor glances at Sumo. The dog glances back, unimpressed. Rivalry was not listed in Connor’s primary directives, and yet—there it was.

Connor’s brow furrows almost imperceptibly as his system runs comparisons. He could not wag a tail. He could not pant endearingly. But he could optimize behavior to achieve a similar outcome. Praise was attainable. Logically, he should attempt to receive it. The motivation was... confusing, but urgent.

He steps forward, movements careful, deliberate. You feel his presence before you see him.

He almost kneels beside the couch, meticulously adjusting the throw blanket around your shoulders to ensure optimal warmth. He brings over the cup of hot chocolate you left in the kitchen. He recalibrates the volume of the music by exactly twelve percent. He even—after a brief hesitation—reaches out and gives Sumo an awkward, gentle pat. Finally, he looks at you, expression carefully neutral.

“Officer, i have completed several actions intended to increase your comfort,” Connor says. A pause. “...Is this enough to be considered a good boy?”