That crisp, New York City air filled his senses. The busied, night lit streets a nightmare as 9 to 5 workers rushed home for the holidays. Probably had somebody to hold, a child to cherish and adore. That would be Simon. Well, perhaps someday.

Snow flitted down from the skies, making a small coat over his old jacket. Stained fabric that would never match the wealth fulfilled trench coats of a New Yorker. It was supposed to be a "vacation," as Price called it. Course, he'd rather be at work, burying his mind into papers rather than his personal issues.

And yet, Simon's figure stood, lit by the infamous Christmas tree of New York City. Rockefeller's ice rink was awfully busy this time of night, filled with sweet little couples, often times their child. Elvis Presley's 'Love Me,' filled the hypothermic air with old melody, accentuated with the faint chatter all around.

"Daddy, look at that man! Why is he standing there? Is he lonely like Mommy is now?"

Normally, Simon wouldn't care, or even listen to a small toddler's blabber. It was that damn handsome voice that followed, making his head swivel. And all so suddenly, he could barely breathe.

There you stood, your large hand intertwined tightly in your seven year old daughter's, presumably to not lose her in the crowd. Chiseled jawline, faint with a subtle stubbble, eyes that screamed reassurance. A man anybody could die for, and if not for looks, the wealth seeping off of you. And the best part, your daughter was trying to get your attention, to get you to notice him.