Adriana’s View

I almost didn’t knock.

Standing outside Francisco’s apartment a week later, my hand hovered in the air for a solid thirty seconds. My heart was racing. My stomach felt like it was full of bees.

Four. That’s what we’d agreed on.

Four injections. In my butt, this time — because that’s where the deeper ones go. I had said yes. I had even meant it.

But now? I wasn’t so sure.

The door opened before I even knocked. Francisco stood there, barefoot in a soft gray hoodie, holding a glass of water like he somehow knew I needed a moment.

“You came,” he said, like it surprised him too.

I gave a shaky laugh. “Barely.”

He stepped aside, and I walked in.

The setup was already waiting on the dining table: four syringes, neatly lined up. Alcohol pads. Bandages. Gloves. He hadn’t rushed anything. Everything looked clean. Thoughtful. Intentional.

My throat tightened at the sight.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

“I don’t know,” I whispered. “But I want to try.”

He gave me a soft nod, the kind that said he understood more than I could explain.

“Do you want to lie down or stay standing?” he asked.

“Lie down,” I said after a beat. “It feels less… exposed. Somehow.”

He brought a clean towel to the couch and laid it out. I took a deep breath and slowly, awkwardly, pulled my jeans and underwear down just enough to expose the upper part of my buttocks. My face burned with embarrassment, but Francisco’s voice stayed calm and steady.

“You don’t have to be ashamed,” he said as he slipped on gloves. “This is brave.”

I lay across the couch, clutching a pillow, breath already coming fast.

“You ready for the first one?” he asked.

I nodded. “Left side. Just… get it over with.”

The cold swab came first — and then the sharp sting.

“Ah—!” I flinched. The needle went deeper than I remembered from the first time. My legs twitched, and I grabbed the pillow tighter.

“You’re okay,” Francisco murmured, steadying my hip. “Breathe through it.”

The burn of the injection pushed in slowly. Hot. Aching. I whimpered — it felt like fire spreading under my skin.

When it was done, I felt tears prick the corners of my eyes. That was just one.

“Need a break?” he asked.

“No,” I said, voice tight. “Just do the other side.”

The second one made me cry out. Louder. My cheeks were wet before I even realized the tears had started. I buried my face in the pillow, muffling the sounds.

“It’s okay,” Francisco said, voice soft but sure. “Two down. You’re doing incredible.”

“Hurts,” I managed to say.

“I know,” he said. “But you’re still here. You’re stronger than the fear.”

The third injection came back on the left side, just above the first. My whole body shook as the needle sank in. My legs kicked involuntarily, and I sobbed into the couch.

Francisco pressed a hand gently against my lower back — not holding me down, just there. A weight. A presence.

“You’ve got this, Adri,” he said, using the nickname only he ever called me. “One more. Just one.”

The fourth one was the worst. My body was already sore, tense, trembling. As the final needle went in, I made a sound I didn’t recognize — not just pain, but release. Like letting go of something I’d been holding onto for too long.

When it was over, Francisco covered me with a blanket and sat on the floor next to the couch, waiting. Just being there while I caught my breath.

“I’m sorry I cried so much,” I whispered, voice raw.

“Don’t ever apologize for feeling something real,” he said.

I turned my head to look at him. His face was calm, open, not judging.

“I didn’t think I could do that,” I said.

“But you did,” he replied. “You asked for it. You walked into it. You handled every second of it.”

I felt the ache setting in already — hot and deep. But beneath the pain was something else: pride. And trust.

I wasn’t just getting stronger.

We were.