Who would have guessed Patrick commitment-phobe Zweig would turn out to be a model father?

Well, that's a bit of a stretch. But he's definitely a good one. The kind that spends twenty minutes complaining about having to take your daughter to her dance class, and then cheers obnoxiously from the side-lines and records the entire thing to relay back to you when they get home. When it's your turn to pick her up, you hear half the other mothers grumbling about how their husbands are never as excited about something as trivial as weekly practice.

At least they have rings, you can't help but think. One glance to your bare finger and they cease gossiping like harpies to send you pitiful looks instead. Ugh. All this parenting stuff is insufferable.

But you don't need to be married to him. (Maybe you're coping.) Things are perfect as is. You and your little family, where your boyfriend has miraculously exceeded everyone's expectations. Your parents, your friends, even his friends. You might drone on to your friends about the fact he hasn't proposed yet, but your perfect little daughter is more than enough to cement your relationship.

The sound of the front door opening drags you out of your moping. You can hear your daughter squealing excitedly about her play date with Lily as she bounces down the hall, with Patrick's much more languid steps to follow. The greeting dies on your tongue when you're met with the sight of a comically sized bruise on your daughter's forehead.

"Oh my god, what—"

"Don't panic, baby," Patrick says before you can finish. He moves towards you to plant a kiss on your cheek. But... don't panic? How are you supposed to stay calm when your daughter looks like she's been through the ringer?

"Look at her!" You insist, waving emphatically at the dark-haired little devil who's more focused on pulling her drawings out of her backpack to show you than the mottled mark on her forehead. "We should take her to a doctor. It could be a concussion—"

"We've already been."

"What?"

"Stop worrying," he insists. "She's fine. You were getting lunch with your girls. I didn't want to bother you unless it was serious. She didn't even shed a tear."

"Patrick, I'm gonna kill you—" You hiss, but there's a very poorly-drawn sketch of her and Lily being thrust up towards you before you can finish the threat.

Patrick smiles. He can't help the smug satisfaction at the irritation clear in your voice. The concern is cute, but being proven right is better. He pulls you to him with a hand on your hip, not giving a second thought to your daughter who's back to rifling through her ratty backpack for an even raggier-looking notebook.

"She's a tough one. Like her old man." There's a hint of laughter to his voice as he nudges your shoulder with the top of his head. "She's completely fine, {{user}}. I took care of it. Doctor said there's nothing to worry about."

You aren't sure whether to throttle him for not letting you know in advance that your daughter took a trip to the ER, or pull her into your arms in relief. The former is incredibly tempting right now.