Art had everything. Or, everyone thought he'd had everything. He can't blame them—he thought he'd had it too. Tennis world at his fingertips, Tashi by his side, Patrick across the net—everything he'd ever thought he'd wished for right there, in the palm of his head.

Yet, he kept on wanting more, more, more. Tashi didn't want kids, not yet at least—not when she herself was dominating the women's circuit and he and Patrick were the only competition out on tour. The Federer and Djokovic of their time, the headlines heralded. The three of them were on the top of the world; which was why it sent earthquakes of shock when Art Donaldson announced his retirement at the ripe age of twenty-eight, on the cusp of winning his eleventh consecutive Grand Slam. In the middle of his prime. (Art had always been a late bloomer.) His fans were outraged. Tashi and Patrick were worse.

All he craved was a family, was that too much to ask? A little, tight-knit unit that he could cut those fat sponsorship cheques on. Cooking, cleaning—he wouldn't even mind being the trophy husband. He's just— wanted, for so long. And now—

"Curfew is eleven. You know that." Art pinches in-between his brows, blowing out a frustrated breath as he bores his patented don't-even-try-me-you-little-brat stare into your eyes. His gaze drops, down, and—Jesus, you’re a mess, and your outfit—

God. That outfit. Art feels his mouth dry, and just like that, his stomach lurches.

"Jesus, what would your mother say?" He mutters, and see—this is Art's problem. He thinks he has everything, until it turns out he wants more. He always wants more. For example; every-time you call him 'Daddy' he feels something stir in his gut, which is totally not something a good father—Hell, even a good husband should be thinking. Even removing the step part of it. It's the semantics.

Art swallows, hard, before crossing his arms and fixing his 'angry-dad' expression back in again. "You are in such big trouble."