3. Chapter 3
Restless Hearts
Patrick [NOW]
Ricardo's sitting across from me at this pathetic excuse for a table, two empty beer bottles standing between us.
We're crammed onto our tiny balcony. The city hums in the background, this constant thrum that's usually comforting.
We've been talking about nothing for twenty minutes, circling the one topic we're both too chickenshit to touch.
Finally, I can't take it anymore.
"So," I say. "The kinky thing."
Ricardo, who's been methodically peeling the label off his beer bottle like he's performing surgery, looks up. The light from inside catches his face. "Yeah," he says. "The kinky thing."
"I wasn't joking," I spit out, because goddamn it, he needs to know that. I need to know if he was just humoring me, playing along to shut me up.
"I know." He sets the bottle down, the glass hitting the metal table with a soft clink. "I'm... still processing."
Here it comes. The part where he tells me I'm a freak, that he's not into it, that I've detonated the perfectly good, comfortable bomb we've been sitting on for two years.
Finally, he speaks. "Can I ask you something?"
I look up from where I'm picking at a loose thread on the couch cushion. "Yeah."
"I guess I always assumed, if you ever needed something, you’d tell me.… Are you asking for this because you're unhappy with us?"
I sit up straight, the chair groaning under my sudden movement. "No!" My hand goes to my lip ring, twisting it between my thumb and forefinger. Nerves. Always the fucking lip ring when I'm nervous.
Ricardo doesn't look convinced, his brow furrowed. Probably calculating the exact probability that I'm full of shit.
"Baby, I cry when you leave town for two days," I say, hoping I can make him understand. "I'm not ashamed to admit it. I ugly-cry, Ricardo. The kind of crying that makes my face swell up like a pufferfish."
"You do not," he says, but his lips give him away.
"I absolutely do," I insist, leaning forward to press my forehead against his.
"The last time you visited family in Mexico, I even sent you that voice note of me crying because I used the last of your cologne spraying it all over the bed.
Remember? I was trying to create a Ricardo-scented cocoon to survive in until you returned.
It was a survival technique, Ricardo. A cry for help. "
"I thought that was because you didn't feel like doing the laundry while I was gone, and you still wanted it to smell fresh," he murmurs, his breath warm against my skin. “You gorgeous little freak.”
"Doesn't matter why. Point is, I cried for an hour because your smell was gone." I pull back, changing the subject before he can call me out on my bullshit. "I'm happy with us. I promise. So happy it's almost stupid, you know? Like, my brain can't quite process it. I love you, Ricky, I just..."
"Are you bored?" he presses, his eyes searching mine. "In the bedroom?"
"No!" I practically shout, then lower my voice, glancing toward the bedroom door. "No, it's not that..."
"So what's all this about then? Finding the spark? Is there something I'm not doing that you'd want me to do?" I can see it—the fear that he's not enough, that he's failing me somehow.
"No, baby, I only figured we'd have some fun. Like when we first started out, that's all."
He pauses, his brow furrowed in thought. I watch him, nerves building.
"I get it if you're not—"
"I am," he cuts me off, his gaze locking onto mine, intense and unwavering.
"I'm into it. Or... I'm willing to be. I'm willing to try.
" He leans forward, his elbows on the table, closing the space between us until I can smell the faint scent of beer and his own clean, masculine scent.
"But I need to know what you want, Patrick.
Because 'kinky' can mean a lot of things. I don't want to... fuck this up."
The relief hits me so hard I feel dizzy. He's not running. He's actually listening. He's trying to understand this mess inside my head. I take a shaky breath.
"I don't want a sex dungeon or anything," I say, the words tumbling out too fast. My brain immediately conjures some grim, black-lit room with whips hanging from the walls. "That's not what I'm talking about. It's more about… the dynamic. The power play."
"Power," he repeats, testing the word. “What are you thinking? Like, tying me up?”
"Yeah," I whisper, feeling a flush creep up my neck.
Admitting it out loud is both terrifying and exhilarating, like standing at the edge of a cliff and knowing you're about to jump.
"I spend all day managing people, solving problems, being the one who has to have all the answers.
I love my job, but it's exhausting. Sometimes I want to...
let go. To not have to think. To feel and know I'm in complete control no matter what.
I'm curious what it would be like. And, maybe, I was hoping you’d like that too. For me to be your dom."
He's watching me intently, searching my face. I see the wheels turning, the man who loves to break numbers apart and figure out how they work applying that same logic to this new, strange concept.
"So, you want to tell me what to do," he says, methodical. "And I obey."
"Yes." I swallow hard. "And I want you to be… more submissive about it than you normally would."
The grin fades into something more serious, more focused. "Okay. I can do that. But you said something about communicating first. Setting rules?"
"Of course." This is what I love about him. He's methodical. He doesn't jump into things headfirst; he builds a foundation. "There are colors for checking in. And a safeword."
"Right." He nods, his thumb stroking the side of his jaw. "Something simple. Something we won't forget."
"Snail," I say immediately.
We both crack up laughing.
"No. Are you fucking joking?" He reaches out and grabs my hand, that familiar warmth spreading through my fingers. My Ricardo. "Patrick… Is this really a humiliation kink you're attempting to tell me about?"
"No!" I wipe at the corner of my eye, still laughing, squeezing his hand tighter. "I love you, baby. It keeps the mood light, you know? Let’s do snail."
He laughs again, that deep warm sound that fills my heart. "Snail it is," he says, still chuckling. "What else?"
"No visible marks," I list off, my brain suddenly cataloging every forum post and article I've guiltily scrolled through at 3 AM.
"Nothing that's going to show up at work, I'm not dealing with Aubrey’s dramatics.
No humiliation—I get enough of that from the general public.
And… we have to talk after. Every single time.
Check in. Make sure we're both not going to have a complete fucking meltdown. "
"Always," he agrees, no hesitation, which both terrifies and turns me on.
His hand reaches across the rickety table, covering mine.
His thumb strokes my knuckles, a simple, grounding touch that feels more intimate than anything we've done in months.
"This is about trust. I get it. I don't take that lightly. "
I stare at our joined hands, his strong fingers intertwined with my own. The trust is already there, a deep, unshakeable bedrock we've built over years of shared secrets and stupid fights. This isn't about creating it from scratch; it's about channeling it, exploring a new, terrifying facet of it.
"So what exactly are we researching?" I ask.
"Consent and communication," he says.
"Okay," I say, forcing enthusiasm. "Super important stuff. Can't have consent without communication, or communication without consent."
He gives me a look that says "please shut up" but with more patience than I’d ever be capable of. "Power exchange," he continues.
"Okay," I nod. "Kinda like that one time I let you decide what movie we watched for once, and you picked a documentary about a man attempting to break the world record for the 1981 arcade game Donkey Kong."
"Sub and dom rules," he says, ignoring my comment.
That’s when it happens.
Ricardo freezes. It’s a just-saw-a-ghost-of-his-ex type of freeze.
"What?" I ask, poking him.
"I’m fine with you being dom, but I don't like being called sub," he admits.
I burst out laughing. "Why?"
"Patrick," he says, and I can tell he's still trying to be patient with me, but there's this little muscle jumping in his jaw that usually means I'm about five minutes away from getting the silent treatment. "I don’t know how well I can play that part... being completely submissive. And also, I don’t like the name. "
"Oh," I say, the laughter dying in my throat.
I lean back against the chair, crossing my arms over my chest. "So let me get this straight.
You're fine with me calling you 'baby,' 'babe,' and occasionally 'my tall, sexy librarian man,' despite not being an actual librarian, but 'sub' is where you draw the line? "
"Yes," he says, his jaw set firm. "It's... demeaning to me."
“What? No it's not... You bottom most of the time,” I argue, “I know you enjoy it—“
“I do. There’s nothing powerless about bottoming, baby. That has nothing to do with being a sub.”
"Demeaning, though?" I practically shout, sitting up straight.
"Demeaning? Ricardo, I've seen you wear socks with sandals!
In public! I've watched you alphabetize our spice rack!
You once spent three hours explaining the beauty of Sudoku to my cousin, who thinks a crossword puzzle is something you only do when you're constipated!
And you think title of 'sub' is demeaning? "
He stares at me. I can’t help but wonder if he's mentally calculating how many hours of sleep he'll lose if he stabs me with what’s left of his favorite pencil.
"It's not the same."
"How is it not the same?" I demand, getting to my feet and starting to pace. "At least being a sub implies someone wants you on insane level! Socks with sandals just implies you've given up on this cute emo thing we’ve got going on."
"Patrick—" he starts, but I'm on a roll now.
"No, seriously! Let's think about this. Sub? That means someone trusts you enough to give you complete control over their pleasure. Being sub is an honor! It means—"
"Okay, okay, I get it," he interrupts, holding up his hands in surrender. "You've made your point."
"Good," I say, flopping back down on the couch and crossing my arms over my chest.
"So," he says, the low sound of the words sending a shiver down my spine. "Want to start doing some actual research? Because your ignorance is already baffling," he teases.
I meet his eyes. The familiarity is still there, but now it's laced with with a dangerous edge that feels like the first time I ever saw him. "Really?"
His smile is slow, shy. It's an expression I haven't seen in a very long time, and it makes my breath catch in my throat.
"Really. One step at a time," he says. "I'll feel a lot better once we plan things out. Educate ourselves, and start easy. But give me a few days, baby... I think I might need to process all this a little longer."
"Okay," I nod, keeping it together when all I want to do is shake him and demand what the hell there is to process. "I can wait."
A sharp feeling of fear strikes deep in my gut. This was the best positive response I could have hoped for to my proposal, but I also suspect that Ricardo isn't being completely honest with me.
Because what's there to process?
Maybe I secretly hoped he'd tell me he loved getting tied up, or ripped off my clothes immediately at the suggestion hoping to get started right now. But no, I get "I need to process this."
Process what? The fact that I want to tie you up and make you scream my name?
That's not exactly rocket science. It's not like I asked him to fucking donate a kidney.
I can't help but think he's not liking any part of this at all, but doesn't want to disappoint me. If he isn’t being honest with me, this is going to blow up in our faces.
He stands up and holds out a hand to me.
His fingers wrap around mine, pulling me out of my spiral.
As he guides me back into the apartment to start looking things up on the laptop, I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way he's biting on his bottom lip.
He's nervous, yeah, but there's something else there too—his mind's working, putting all the pieces together.
He's fighting for this, for us.
I hope it's enough to keep him here with me, to keep him happy. And I hope to god he's being honest about being okay with all this, because I might end up losing him if he isn't.