Adriana’s View

“I want to try something harder,” I told Francisco.

He looked up from his mug of tea, eyebrows lifting. “Harder how?”

I paused, my fingers curled around the sleeves of my hoodie. “More intense. Something that pushes me — more than the last time.”

He didn’t answer right away. He just looked at me for a moment, reading my expression like he always did — not judging, just checking in.

“Okay,” he said softly. “Then I’ll look into a couple options. But we’ll go step by step. You sure you want this?”

I nodded. “I’m sure.”

⸻

A few days later, I was back on his couch — same towel, same quiet setup — but something was different. The usual four syringes were still there, but two of them looked… meaner. Thicker barrels. Longer tips. More serious.

Francisco tapped one gently. “The first two are standard. Same saline mix we’ve been using. The last two… are deeper. Slightly thicker gauge. And I added a tiny bit of a stingier compound — safe, but more noticeable.”

I nodded slowly. “Okay.”

“We’ll go one at a time,” he said. “You tell me if anything feels off. No pressure to finish.”

I smiled at him, grateful. “Thanks. I trust you.”

⸻

The first two injections were familiar by now. Painful, yes — but manageable. I whimpered as each needle went in, my muscles flinching on instinct, but I breathed through them. No tears, just that deep ache I was starting to understand, almost appreciate.

But when he reached for the third syringe — one of the larger ones — I felt my stomach drop.

“You sure?” he asked.

I nodded into the pillow. “Do it.”

The prick was sharper, more forceful. I gasped as the needle pierced deeper, then burned as the liquid pushed in.

“Francisco— oh God— that stings—” I clenched my fists, legs twitching.

“I know. I’ve got you. Almost through it,” he said, steady and calm, his hand anchoring my hip.

By the time he pulled the needle out, tears were streaming down my cheeks again. This was new. More than discomfort — it was a test. And I hadn’t broken.

“You okay to keep going?” he asked.

I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. “One more.”

The fourth injection — the worst of them — came high on the opposite side. I wasn’t prepared for how fast the burn hit. I cried out, voice raw. My body tensed so tightly that Francisco had to pause mid-injection and gently press down on my back to keep me from curling up.

“You’re okay. You’re okay,” he whispered.

I sobbed into the pillow, every muscle screaming — but I didn’t pull away. I let it happen. I endured.

And when he finally pulled the needle free, I collapsed into the couch, shaking, sore, wrung out.

“Do you want the suppository again?” he asked, already getting fresh gloves.

I could barely nod.

He administered it gently — I flinched, but it didn’t feel invasive. It felt like part of the care, part of the ritual now.

Then he peeled off the gloves and looked at me with a soft smile.

“Now comes the part you might actually hate more than the needles.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Massage,” he said, flexing his hands with mock drama. “We gotta help that medication move around. Reduce the soreness. It’ll hurt a bit — but no needles involved.”

I rolled my eyes, still breathless. “Great. Stab me four times and then knead the bruises. What a treat.”

He laughed and gently began pressing into the areas he’d injected — first one cheek, then the other. And yeah, it hurt. A lot. Deep, aching pressure, like poking at an open flame. But somehow, it was also funny — the way I yelped and hissed through clenched teeth while he chuckled.

“Stop laughing!” I said between winces.

“I can’t help it. You’re squeaking like a rubber toy.”

“You’re evil,” I muttered, giggling despite myself.

“Cruel but effective,” he said, continuing the slow, deliberate massage.

I groaned, half in pain, half in laughter. “This is so dumb.”

“But you’re still letting me do it,” he teased.

I buried my face in the couch cushion. “Shut up and finish.”

He worked a little longer, careful but firm, and when he finally stopped, I felt — weirdly — better. Looser. Warmer. Less trapped in the pain, more grounded in my body again.

He sat beside me on the floor like always, and we stayed quiet for a while.

No drama. No awkwardness. Just two people — one healing, one helping.

Still just friends.

But the kind of friends who could walk through fire together and come out stronger on the other side.