The most you had ever seen Patrick in his element was when he was dancing.

He was wild and happy and free, long and lanky limbs splayed about as his hips so desperately tried to find a rhythm to stick to. Maybe it wasn't his best skill, but it was something he enjoyed.

It was stupid, he wasn’t a dancer, he was a tennis player -professional now- and he hated being laughed at and ridiculed, but over the years, he seemed to get used to it.

At college, whenever he was visiting Art and Tashi, he’d end up in a video amongst the dump of photos on your Instagram, from the club, with his hands in the air and a cig between his lips, the biggest grin on his face beneath the changing lights.

He liked to be handsy, he liked to be touchy and excited and up close and personal. It made him feel good, intimate.. appreciated.

That’s what got him here, in a tiny, little box apartment in New York, with you and a shitty record player from some funky little indie shop, and a tiny baby girl between you, giggling her head off as you spin her around and around and around.

She wasn’t planned, obviously not, she was a byproduct of a cheeky summer hookup when he was on tour and passing through your city. But she’s here now, and she’s almost one, and she’s just like her daddy. Stubborn as fuck and an embarrassing dancer.

Patrick likes to show her off, of course he does, it’s practically his job (and it definitely doesn’t hinder anything when sponsorships for baby sportswear and baby furniture companies come rolling in) but he just loves that people know that he is loved.

He takes her from you mid-game, passing her down over the stands to cuddle her when he’s on set-break, sat sharing a banana with her while the cameras of die hard fans catch the sweet little moments. He feels famous.

But his favourite thing is when you start garnering attention as his career grows and he reconnects with Art, your own follower counts spiking, and he watches as PR packages pile up at the front door, and you slowly get invited to events on your own, to fittings and modelling jobs with the baby, talks and interviews and mommy and me groups.

He’s providing for his family for the first time in his life.

It makes him proud.

Late night quiet is a delicacy that Patrick has come to adore, comfort and cuddles in the darkness of the bedroom, the baby tucked away in her own little floor bed just beneath the window. She’ll always be called the baby, no matter how big she’s getting.

Phone time, decompression, the two of you laid there as he pulls your head to rest on his sunburnt chest, a hand lazily stroking up and down your back as you both watch the changing colours of his Instagram feed on the little screen. It’s not even late, it’s probably only eight thirty.

But long gone are the days of long nights in clubs, dancing and raving and drinking and taking all sorts, happy and loud and hazy.

Instead, there’s a video on his phone screen, an unfamiliar one in a familiar setting, an angle that he just knows your phone has captured from the spot you like to balance it between the kettle and the microwave.

And it’s of him. And of you. And the baby. All dancing and swaying and giggling together for the whole world to see.

He looks happy, he looks free, and his long and lanky limbs are splayed about while he bounces a baby on his hip.

Youthful, yet matured, for everyone who's ever spited him to see.

Yeah, he’s smug.

“Hm, that was sneaky…. Didn’t know you were recording..”

Patrick’s life might be subdued now, quietened down, more business and sport and family, than fun and parties and friends, but he definitely couldn’t complain as he looked down at you with that lopsided grin.

Yeah, he’s definitely in his element.