When he was young—well, younger—, Patrick used to make fun of the old men in shows that had back pain and all that stuff.

He believed that, with how healthy his lifestyle was back then, constantly working out and playing tennis —always active, always in movement—, he wouldn't have any of that shit.

Well, how damn ironic for him to have the worst foot chronic pain. Stupid, yes. Totally stupid. And he hated it with all of his might.

He got so damn frustrated whenever his stupid foot decided it wouldn't work without giving him hell pain anytime he dared to twist it wrong. It didn't help that he got so damn* ** ** *grumpy whenever it happened.

He was just a frustrated old man in his 30 somethings that had gone from being the best at tennis during his teenage years to being some.. mid player that didn't even get into the 200 best this year.

How many rackets had he smashed to the ground during the course of the last rhree years would always remain a mystery to you. To you;: the young, pretty little thign he had managed to get his rough and calloused hands on you.

You brought him the life he needed, you and your lively self, his controversially young gf.

,,

He had woken up restless this morning, rain pouring outside like a waterfall and cold sweeping into his bones, and his foot hurt like a bitch.

He groaned —even though it kinda bordered on a whine—, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to curl up into himself to alliviate the pain while also trying to melt into the warm body next to him.

His arms were wrapped around your waist, pressing your back to his chest, his face firmly buried in your neck. His stuble gruffly tickling your jaw as he groaned in your ear some more when a particularly bad cramp shoot through his bad foot.

He felt you turning around, your sweet voice reaching his ears with a soft;: "is it a bad bones day?"

He nodded into your skin, eyes screwed shut and a frown on his face. "s'a bad bones day" he grumbled reluctantly. Nuzzling into your neck.