Adriana’s View

I knew something was different the second I smelled the alcohol wipes.

Stronger. Sharper.

Francisco confirmed it when I asked. “Same setup,” he said, “but I mixed in a stingier compound today. It’s still safe — just more intense.”

I nodded. “Okay.”

But part of me wasn’t sure.

I lay across the couch like always, the towel beneath me soft and familiar. Shorts lowered, body exposed but not uncomfortable — not with him. Not anymore.

He prepped the first syringe. “We’ll start with your thighs. Same as last time.”

I watched it go in again — the sight still made my skin crawl, even if I tried to stay calm.

The burn hit fast. Faster than before. My breath caught in my throat, and I clutched the couch cushion so tightly my knuckles turned white.

“Okay?” Francisco asked.

I nodded, but my jaw was clenched too tight to speak.

The second injection in the opposite thigh made me cry out. Not loud, but sharp — like something snapped loose in my chest. The sting coiled down through the muscle, deeper than I expected.

Then came the couch repositioning, the four gloved syringes still waiting. I could feel the sweat under my arms as I lay flat again.

The third injection — high on my left side — was where I cracked.

The needle sank in, the burn pulsed like fire, and I whimpered:

“Wait— wait— Francisco, stop— please—”

He froze immediately, hands still. “Okay. I’ve stopped. You’re okay.”

My body was trembling. The medication was still burning in the muscle. My throat tightened, but I forced the words out.

“I don’t know if I can—”

“You can,” he said gently. “But we don’t have to push through it like this. Let’s slow down.”

He set the syringe down, peeled off one glove, and reached for my hand. His palm was warm, grounding.

“Just breathe with me,” he said.

We inhaled together — deep, slow. Again. And again.

“Do you want to stop completely?” he asked. “You can. No shame.”

I shook my head. “No. Just… needed to catch my breath.”

He nodded. “Then I’ll keep going. But you tell me the second it’s too much.”

His hand stayed in mine while he re-gloved the other. And I held onto that grip through the fourth injection, then the fifth — both of them lower now, deep in the muscle near where I’d feel it for days.

I sobbed, legs twitching, breath ragged. But I stayed.

And when it was over, he asked softly, “Usual aftercare?”

I nodded.

The first suppository slid in with the familiarity I’d come to expect. Cool. Comforting.

But then: “I’m going to give you a second one,” he said. “The pain was higher this time. This should ease the soreness more.”

I nodded again, barely managing a hoarse, “Okay.”

The second one joined the first, and I sighed into the pillow. Not relief — not yet — but the promise of it.

Then came the massage.

He pressed gently first, then deeper, working the muscle with care. It still hurt — God, it really hurt — but in that way that made me laugh through the pain.

“Seriously, you are so mean,” I groaned.

“It’s therapeutic,” he said, smirking.

“Sadistic,” I countered, squeaking under his knuckles.

We both laughed — even through the tears in my eyes.

But then, when the pressure eased, and I lay still again, something in my chest opened.

“I don’t know why this matters so much,” I whispered. “But it does. Being here. Feeling this. Letting you see me like this.”

He didn’t say anything right away. Then he sat beside me on the floor, looking up at me with that same steady expression he always wore when something really mattered.

“It matters to me too,” he said. “Not just helping you — but that you let me. You trusted me with something that’s… honestly kind of sacred.”

My eyes stung again — not from pain this time.

“You’ve never made me feel ashamed of any of it,” I said. “Even when I cry. Even when I break.”

“That’s because you never break,” he replied. “You show up. You say yes to something scary, again and again. I’ve never seen anyone be that honest in pain.”

There was a long pause.

And then he said, quieter:

“Thank you for letting me do this with you. It’s not just about giving shots. It’s something else. And I’m honored to be part of it.”

I reached for his hand again, still shaking a little. “I’m glad it’s you.”

Still just friends.

But the kind of friends who could sit in silence after everything and know — without saying it — that something real had been built between them. Something strong. Something that would last.