Adriana’s View

I knew something was different the moment I walked in.

Francisco didn’t say anything — just that same quiet look, calm but focused. But I could see it in the way he had laid everything out. Six syringes this time. Neatly aligned.

But two of them sat apart from the rest.

“What’s the plan?” I asked, pulling off my jacket.

He glanced at the two set aside. “Thought we’d try something different today. Thigh injections — just the first two. You’ll be able to see them happen. Watch it go in, feel the pressure without turning away.”

My stomach flipped.

I hadn’t realized how much comfort I’d found in not having to look. The buttock injections had always let me dissociate a little, bury my face in the pillow and go somewhere else while he did what he needed to do.

But this… this would be something I couldn’t look away from.

“You in?” he asked gently.

I swallowed hard — then nodded. “Let’s try.”

⸻

I sat on the couch this time, shorts pushed up to expose the upper parts of both thighs. My palms were already sweaty. Francisco knelt in front of me with the first syringe in hand. I watched him swab the skin, the alcohol cool and sharp.

“You can look away if you need to,” he offered.

“I don’t want to,” I whispered. “I want to see it. I want to feel what it’s like when I don’t hide.”

He nodded. “Okay. First one’s going in.”

The moment the needle pierced my thigh, I gasped. Not because it hurt more than the others — but because it was there, right in front of me. I watched the skin dimple, watched the needle slide deeper. The slow pressure of the medication made my entire leg tingle.

Tears welled up. Not from pain — from confrontation. I was staring straight at the thing that had always terrified me.

“You’re doing amazing,” Francisco said quietly, still pushing the plunger with care.

When it was done, he slid it out and reached for the second.

The other thigh. This one hit harder — something about the angle, the visibility, the tension in my muscles. I whimpered, grabbing a cushion and squeezing it to my chest.

“You’re okay,” he murmured. “Still with me?”

I nodded, breathing hard.

When both thigh injections were done, I curled up for a minute, hugging the pillow, letting my breath come back to me.

“That was… intense,” I whispered.

He smiled faintly. “You didn’t flinch.”

“I didn’t look away.”

⸻

He let me take a breather before we moved on to the others. Four syringes remained. The usual position — face down on the couch, shorts lowered just enough.

But this time, he warned me.

“Two will be lower,” he said softly. “Deeper into the muscle, near where you’ll sit. They’ll linger longer. That okay?”

I hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah. I want to feel them. I want to remember I did this.”

The first two were placed high, like always. Painful, yes — a familiar burn. My body still tensed, still trembled under his hand, but I could manage it.

The third went lower. Much lower. When the needle pierced, I jerked, a yelp escaping my lips.

“Oh— that’s— that’s gonna hurt for days,” I groaned into the couch.

He chuckled softly. “Yeah. Probably.”

“Cruel,” I muttered, even as tears formed.

The fourth — the other low one — was worse. My voice broke as the needle went in, and I bit down hard on the pillow, trying not to cry out again.

“It burns—” I whimpered.

“Just a few seconds more,” he said. “You’ve got this.”

When it was over, I was shaking again. Not from fear, but the aftermath. That strange, satisfying exhaustion.

“I don’t want to move,” I mumbled.

He laughed gently. “You don’t have to. But I’ve got the usual aftercare.”

I nodded into the couch. “Do it.”

⸻

The suppository came next. Familiar. Comforting in its own odd way now. I flinched, then relaxed. Then came the massage — deeper this time, especially over the lower injection sites.

“Ow— okay— ow,” I gasped, half-laughing.

“It helps the medicine move,” he said in his most annoying clinical voice.

“Shut up, I know that,” I said, trying not to laugh harder as he worked the muscle. “You’re just enjoying torturing me.”

“Just a little,” he admitted, grinning.

“Why does this hurt more than the needle?” I groaned.

“Because you’re awake for it,” he said.

We both laughed — the kind of laughter that cuts through pain and makes space for something lighter.

When he finished, I was limp again, sprawled under a blanket, eyes glassy but content.

The soreness was real. The intensity had been something else entirely. But I had done it.

And Francisco had, once again, walked me through the fire — no judgment. No pressure.

Just presence.

Still just friends.

But the kind of friends who carry each other through things most people don’t even talk about.