Where I Land
Ricardo [NOW]
This entire week has been a special kind of hell, the kind that sneaks up on you when you're not looking.
I used the safeword like I was supposed to—did the right thing, the smart thing—but the look on Patrick's face is burned into my retinas.
I can't shake it, can't stop replaying it in my head.
I can't stop feeling like I let him down, that he was finally getting what he wanted, what I promised I could give him, and then I just... couldn't.
I can tell he's not over it either.
He's been walking on eggshells around me, extra sweet in that way that screams he’s trying so hard not to fuck up.
No teasing remarks about my obsessive number-crunching, no complaints about the coffee machine at his work.
He's apologized to the kitchen counter twice this morning for bumping into it, and to me about a dozen times for shit that doesn't even register on the "things to be sorry about" scale.
This isn't my Patrick, not the firecracker who pushes my buttons to see me spark.
I don't know how to tell him we're okay when I'm not sure we are.
The truth is, I don't know what the hell happened that night, and I've been turning it over and over in my mind. I didn't think I had any boundaries when it came to Patrick, but it wasn't him. It was me.
One minute I was feeling doted on, adored, like I was the center of his universe—the next, I was suffocating, trapped in my own skin.
Not that I didn't want to be there, not that I didn't want him.
It doesn't make sense the longer I think about it, and while I meant every word I told him about everything being okay and learning new boundaries, I'm starting to realize we're not just learning about each other.
We're learning about ourselves too. Even if I don't know what the hell that says about me yet.
I'm sprawled out on the couch, my Sudoku puzzle half-finished on the coffee table, when my phone buzzes against my thigh.
The sound cuts through the quiet of our apartment, too loud in the sudden stillness.
I've been staring at the same row of numbers for ten minutes, my brain refusing to cooperate, too tangled up in thoughts of last week and the way Patrick's face looked when I used the safeword.
I grab my phone, my thumb swiping across the screen with a sigh. It's Patrick, of course. Who else would it be?
Patrick: Hi, baby. Are you hungry?
I stare at the message, at the careful way he's phrasing everything lately. Like he's walking through a minefield, afraid one wrong word will set me off again. It's driving me crazy. I type back, trying to sound normal, trying to be the Ricardo he fell for, not this... whatever the hell I am now.
Ricardo: Hey, my love. That depends. Hungry for what?
Three dots appear immediately, then disappear, then appear again. I can almost see him on the other end, brow furrowed, tongue caught between his teeth as he overthinks a simple question. When the response finally comes, it's exactly what I expected.
Patrick: I can bring dinner. Tacos?
I almost laugh. Of course he'd suggest tacos.
It's our thing, our ritual after a long day.
But lately, everything's been twisted into something complicated.
I decide to play, just a little, to see if I can get a rise out of him, to break through this careful facade he's been hiding behind the last few days.
Ricardo: I prefer eggplant.
The response is instantaneous, a flurry of panicked texts that hit me with a mixture of frustration and guilt.
Patrick: I'm so sorry!
Patrick: I don't know why I said tacos without waiting to see what you wanted first.
Patrick: I can stop by the Mediterranean place on the way home.
Patrick: They have that eggplant dish you like.
Patrick: Or we could just order in. Whatever you want. Really.
I close my eyes, rubbing at the tension building behind them. This isn't working. This careful dance we've been doing all week, it's exhausting. I miss the way he used to challenge me. I miss my Patrick.
Ricardo: Babe, I'm joking.
The response is a single word, and it's somehow worse than all the panicked apologies combined.
Patrick: Sorry.
I toss my phone onto the cushion beside me, the Sudoku puzzle forgotten.
We're not okay. And I have no fucking clue how to fix us.
The second Patrick walks into the apartment, I know something's wrong.
He's carrying a bag of takeout, probably the eggplant but not the eggplant I had in mind when he asked me what I wanted.
His red hair is a mess. He doesn't look at me when he drops his keys on the counter. He keeps staring at his food.
"Hey," I say.
He glances up. "Hey," he echoes, his voice flat, devoid of the usual snark that used to be there. "You hungry?"
I nod my head, moving so he can sit across from me. "Yeah."
He nods, sliding me my box of food before opening his and poking at it with a plastic fork. It's a half-assed attempt at eating. The sight of it twists something in my gut.
I reach across the table, my fingers brushing against his hand. He freezes, his eyes darting up to meet mine.
"What's going on?" I ask.
He pulls his hand back. "Nothing."
"Bullshit," I say, the word sharp. "You've been moping around all week, barely eating, barely talking to me. And now you're sitting here, playing with your food. Talk to me, Patrick."
Something in him finally snaps, that familiar fire I've been missing all week breaking through the careful mask he's been wearing. "What the hell do you want me to say, Ricardo? That I'm sorry I can’t be what you need? That I fucked up our little game, and probably our entire sex life, for good?"
The words hit me, and I flinch before I can stop myself. "That's not what this is about."
"Isn't it?" he snaps, shoving his plate away so hard the plastic fork skitters across the table and clatters to the floor.
"You used the safeword. I promised myself it’d never get to that, and it blindsided me.
You know what that means? It means I didn't ask you for color enough.
I didn't check in to make sure you were okay.
I kept taking and taking, until I made you feel unsafe. "
"That’s not what happened. It’s… complicated. It upset me knowing I had a limit, it wasn’t your fault," I admit.
"What?" he scoffs, but the edge in his tone has softened. "What are you talking about? Everyone has a limit. I didn't ask you for color enough."
"I didn't think I had a limit with you." I wring my fingers together, taking a steady breath. "What I’m trying to say, Patrick… is that I would have said green, even if I didn't mean it." The last part slips out before I can stop it, surprising both of us.
Patrick's eyes widen, the anger in them replaced by something else—concern, maybe, or understanding. "Ricardo, that's a problem."
"I know," I say, the words barely a whisper, defeated. “That’s why I’m bringing it up. That, and the fact that for some reason you’re seeing the safeword as a sign that you did something wrong.”
I set my food down, the eggplant already cold and unappetizing. I move around the table, dropping into the chair beside him, close enough that our knees touch.
"It's not your fault, Patrick," I continue, trying to make eye contact, but he's looking anywhere but at me. "I'm the one who couldn't handle it. I'm the one who didn't say yellow, or tell you when my heart started racing for the wrong reason."
"I pushed you," he says with a bone-deep weariness that makes my heart ache.
"You didn't. I didn't give you any reason to stop.
" I take a deep breath, forcing myself to be honest, to lay it all out there.
"I don't know what happened to me that night. I wanted to be there, with you. I wanted it to be perfect. But when you cuffed my wrists... That’s when I should have said something. I felt trapped, and I told you green."
Patrick's hand finally reaches out, his fingers brushing against my thigh in a tentative touch. "Why?"
"I have a hard time saying no to you," I say, covering his hand with my own. "I don't want this to be the end of us, Patrick. I don't want to lose you because I can't handle a little fucking bondage."
He finally looks at me directly. "It's not just about that," he says. "It's about communication. You didn't trust me enough to tell me how you really felt about something, and I don't know how to fix that."
“I can work on this," I argue, squeezing his hand. "Every day. I promise. That night... that was a momentary lapse. It doesn't define us."
He shakes his head, his gaze slipping away again.
"You keep saying it's not a big deal, but it feels like one. I need to be able to trust you to tell me when something's wrong, and you need to trust me to stop. If we can't do that, we shouldn't keep diving deeper into this… And we need to figure out how to fix that, Ricky. I’m scared we’re not going to work, and I don’t want to lose you. I can’t. "
His words hang in the air. I'm standing on the edge of a cliff, and one wrong move will send me tumbling into the abyss.
"I’m not going anywhere," I say, hoping he can hear the truth in it. "I love you, Patrick, and I need you to be patient with me. We’ll work through this together."
He's quiet for a long moment, his thumb tracing circles on my thigh. He’s trying to find the right words. "I can be patient," he finally says. "But I need you to promise me something."
"Anything," I say, because it's true. I'd give him anything to fix this.
"Don't lie to me," he says. "If you're not okay, you tell me. Even if it ruins the moment, even if it's the middle of sex, I don't care. You tell me. No more pretending you’re okay with something when you’re not."
I nod, the weight of his words settling over me. "I promise," I whisper, and I mean it. I won't let this happen again. I won't let him down.
He lets out a shaky breath, and his shoulders slump with relief. "Okay," he says, his hand sliding up to rest on my knee. "We'll figure this out together."
"Together," I echo. And finally, it feels like we might actually be okay.
I lean in, pressing a kiss to his temple, my lips lingering against his skin.
He sighs, his body relaxing into mine, and I feel a flicker of hope that maybe we can find our way back to each other.
We stay tangled up for who knows how long, the food getting cold on the table while the rest of the world just fucking fades away.
And then I realize—the weirdest part of this whole clusterfuck wasn't saying "snail" in the first place.
It was what happened after. Patrick didn't get mad at me.
Didn't give me the silent treatment or make me think I'd pissed all over his parade.
He stopped, held me, like my comfort was the only thing that mattered, more important than whatever twisted game we were playing.
Maybe that's what I'd been scared shitless about all along.
Not the cuffs. Not feeling like a fish out of water.
It was the thought that saying no would break him, that I'd let him down somehow.
But instead, he looked almost... relieved.
Like the fact that I trusted him enough to stop meant more than any fantasy we were chasing.
"I love you, you know that?" I murmur against his hair.
He nods, his hand coming up to cup the back of my neck. "I know," he says, thick with emotion. "I love you, too."