Adriana’s View

When Francisco opened the door, I didn’t even wait for him to ask how I was.

“My stomach is not okay today,” I said, pressing a palm to my midsection. “Cramps. Bloating. I almost didn’t come.”

“You should’ve canceled,” he said gently.

I dropped my bag and flopped onto the couch with a groan. “I didn’t want to lose momentum. I figured I’d just suffer through it.”

He studied me for a moment, then crossed his arms. “What if we change things up today?”

My eyebrows lifted.

“No thigh injections,” he said. “Nothing that’ll tighten your core or make your stomach work harder. I’ll place all four shots lower — all in the base of the glute, where you’ll feel it when you sit but not in your core. That way your stomach gets a break.”

I blinked. “You planned this?”

“I adapt,” he said simply. “You come here in a different state every week. I pay attention.”

I smiled despite myself. “You’re annoyingly thoughtful.”

Francisco stepped closer and held up a small bottle of medicated drink. “I did think of something else too — not needles.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“It’s a gentle laxative,” he said. “Mild, just enough to ease things if your stomach’s been locked up. No pain, no procedure. But it’ll help settle your gut before the injections.”

I hesitated — not because I didn’t trust him, but because admitting I needed help like that made me feel weirdly exposed.

Still, I took the bottle from his hand and drank it without a word.

That, I realized, was trust.

⸻

Twenty minutes later, the pressure in my belly had eased. Still tender, but better. My nerves were awake again — not from cramps this time, but anticipation.

Francisco handed me the towel. “Lower glutes only today,” he said. “You sure you’re okay with that?”

“I came here sore and bloated and already regretting life,” I muttered, pulling the blanket over myself. “Let’s make it worse.”

He laughed. “That’s the spirit.”

The first injection hit deep — a low, burning ache that spread outward fast. I gasped, fists gripping the cushion.

“Lower hurts more,” I whispered.

“I know,” he said softly. “That’s why I’m going slow.”

The second needle made me whimper. My body jolted, thighs twitching. Francisco’s hand steadied me.

“You’re doing good,” he murmured.

By the third, I was biting the pillow again. Each one burned longer than usual, settling deep into the muscle — into the part of me I couldn’t forget about when I sat down, moved, breathed.

The fourth made me cry. Not loud — just a soft, sharp sob. But I didn’t ask him to stop.

When he finished, I felt wrecked. Wrung out.

But safe.

“You ready for aftercare?” he asked.

I nodded, breathless.

The first suppository was routine now. The second was expected. The slow pressure was familiar — soothing, even. A full-body exhale.

Then came the massage. His hands pressed firmly into each side, working through the burn, finding the worst of the soreness and leaning into it.

I gasped. Winced. Laughed.

“Every time I think I’ve found the worst pain,” I said, “you outdo yourself.”

“Just imagine how it would feel without the massage,” he teased.

“Don’t even joke,” I groaned.

He worked slower this time — more methodical, more deliberate. And I realized that maybe the physical pain wasn’t the part I craved anymore.

Maybe it was the attention. The care. The space to be messy, weak, sore, and still respected.

When he finished, I stayed curled under the blanket, emotionally raw.

“I almost didn’t come today,” I murmured.

“I’m glad you did,” he said. “You didn’t push through the pain. You worked with it. That’s progress.”

I met his eyes. “Thanks for never making this feel strange. Even when it probably is.”

“It’s not strange,” he said. “It’s yours. You made it your own. And I’m grateful I get to help.”

Still just friends.

But the kind of friends who knew how to show up for each other — even when the whole world went silent.