Adriana’s View

I didn’t ask how many he had planned this time.

When I arrived at Francisco’s apartment that afternoon, he didn’t say “four” like last time. He didn’t count. He just greeted me with that calm, quiet look he always wore when he was trying to keep me grounded.

And maybe that was the answer: he didn’t want this to be about numbers. He wanted me to feel through it, not calculate my way through the pain.

I respected that. Even if it terrified me.

He had set up the couch again — clean towels, everything sterile and organized. The syringes were laid out, but I didn’t look at them. I didn’t want to know how many. I wanted to focus on one at a time.

“How are you feeling?” he asked as I took off my jacket.

“Nervous,” I admitted. “But ready.”

“Same routine?” he asked.

I nodded. “Face down. Just… get through it.”

I lay across the couch, adjusting the waistband of my shorts and trying to breathe evenly. The position wasn’t new anymore, but it still made my cheeks warm with embarrassment.

Francisco was always respectful — never stared, never made it weird. And that, more than anything, made this possible. He didn’t see me as someone exposed — he saw someone trying to be brave.

“First one,” he said, after swabbing the upper left side of my backside. “Deep breath.”

I held on to the pillow and exhaled.

The needle went in — slower this time. I gasped and curled my toes against the couch cushion. It burned. The muscle protested. But I didn’t cry out.

Not yet.

“You’re okay,” he said gently. “That one went in smooth.”

But the second — on the right side — hit a more sensitive spot. I flinched, cried out, tears immediately forming. “That one… oh God.”

He placed his hand firmly on my lower back. “I know. You’re still doing great. Breathe.”

By the third injection, the tears were streaming. My whole body had gone limp, but I stayed still. I didn’t ask how many more. I didn’t want to break the rhythm.

“Almost done,” he whispered — and that meant there was at least one more.

The fourth came high on my left side. I whimpered, unable to hold back the sob. My body trembled. My legs jerked slightly. The pain had layered now — a deep, spreading burn that pulsed through my hips.

When the fifth needle pierced in — yes, there was a fifth — I cried openly. Not just pain, but exhaustion. But I stayed. I let it happen. I trusted him.

And when it was over, I couldn’t even speak. I just lay there, face damp, arms limp.

“Do you want the suppository again?” he asked quietly.

I gave a small, tearful nod. “Please.”

I heard the soft crinkle of foil. Then gloves snapping. The familiar sound of Francisco preparing carefully, quietly, without pressure. It was almost comforting — like a ritual now. Something I could rely on.

He lifted the blanket again and gently inserted it. The coolness, the pressure — I flinched slightly, but the discomfort didn’t matter anymore. It was part of the process. Part of the care.

He covered me again, placed his hand gently on my shoulder, and sat beside me on the floor — silent, steady, there.

I didn’t need him to talk.

I just needed him to be him.

We didn’t talk about love. Or romance. That wasn’t what this was.

This was trust.

The kind of trust you don’t put into words. The kind that lives in silence, in gloved hands and quiet breathing, in knowing someone will sit beside you when you’re at your most vulnerable and never make you feel small.

When I finally spoke, it was barely a whisper.

“Thank you for not making this weird.”

His response was just as soft. “You’re my friend. I’d never do that.”

I closed my eyes, sore but calm, and let the warmth of the suppository start to work.

We were just two people in a quiet room. One hurting. One helping.

And that was enough.