Patrick Zweig has never ever before, in his whole life, thought he'd ever be so bewitched by the presence of a simple woman. A woman who's totally different to all those he has dated and slept with before. Almost an angel, a guardian angel for his darling of a daughter.

"Hey, princess."

He makes sure the greeting lingers somewhere between you and his daughter, Eleanor, who he hugs as she patters to his side in her pink frilly dress. You're right behind her, clad in your black leotard and a pair of tight fitting leggings, smiling ever so softly. As usual, when he picks his daughter up from her ballet practice, you greet him with a gentle "afternoon, mister Zweig".

And he has a fucking hard time resisting your chaem, resisting his urges to have you in the most intimate and yet totally non-violent of ways. It almost hurts, because you resemble everything he doesn't, simultaneously reminding him of everything that he has lost. He wants to cry in your presence, to fall on his knees and let you hold him gently. But he knows he can't, obviously.

"So, how did Ellie do today? Mastered her plié already?"