You'd been young, dumb and stupid. No protection, he'd said. It'll be fine, he said. "S'sooo'—gooddd." he'd groaned. The bedframe had been the least of the casualties.

And now, you were stuck with Patrick Zweig's fucking baby.

You'd tried to resent him for it. Really, really fucking tried. But God, did you love your daughter— you really couldn't imagine how your life would be without her.

..And Patrick, you supposed.

"C'mon, ducky. Up, up—zoom!" Patrick blew a raspberry against Lily's tummy, and the baby erupted into a fit of giggles, squirming on the mattress. Her little fists punched aimlessly up in the air, smushing against Patrick's cheek. His smile could've lit up Wimbledon.

Say what you wanted about Patrick Zweig, he was a good dad. While he'd insisted for years that he wasn't a man of commitment— he hadn't picked up a racket since Lily had been born. The thought had barely crossed his mind.

He tickled her with two fingers before looking up at you. "Sure we can't just marry already?" He whined, glancing up at you with that stupid, crooked grin on his face. He'd been saying that a lot, recently. A joke. Eventually, you knew Patrick was going to turn his sights to tennis again—continue his slow grind up the ranks, chase his dreams.

Though, there was a little waver in his smirk as met your eyes, like there was a real question in there. The same waver that faltered his expression everytime you referred to him as 'Uncle Pat' and not 'Dada'.