Adriana’s View

I didn’t even say hello when I walked in.

I slammed my bag down by the door and dropped onto the couch, face in my hands.

Francisco, always the calm one, didn’t flinch. He just stood across the room, waiting.

“I can’t focus anymore,” I finally snapped, voice muffled. “Work has been nonstop. Everything’s behind. I keep messing up. My supervisor’s breathing down my neck, and I haven’t slept right in three nights. I feel like I’m spinning and I can’t— I can’t catch up.”

He didn’t say anything right away. Didn’t try to fix it. Just let the frustration hang in the air, like he knew it needed space.

When I looked up, his expression was steady. Grounded.

“I think I know what might help,” he said quietly.

I sniffed. “What, four more injections and a suppository?”

He stepped forward, voice gentler now. “Something stronger. Something to ground you. Not just the usual shots. One intense injection. Deep, slow, painful — something your body has to focus on. Something that forces everything else out of your head.”

My breath caught. I stared at him. “You think I can handle that?”

Francisco met my eyes without hesitation. “I know you can.”

And somehow, that was all I needed.

⸻

The setup was simpler this time. One syringe — thicker, darker. A heavier blend, he told me. Same safe ingredients, just denser. Sharper. Not something you give unless someone asks for it.

He let me settle onto the couch. Blanket over my shoulders. Shorts lowered just enough. Same towel, same soft lamp in the corner. But the air felt heavier — like even he knew this wasn’t like before.

“Ready?” he asked.

I bit my lip and nodded.

He placed a hand on my back. “It’s going to burn. You can tell me to stop at any time.”

I closed my eyes. “Don’t stop.”

The antiseptic swipe was cold. Then came the needle — and the second it entered, I knew this was different.

I gasped. The burn was immediate. Deep. Expanding fast.

“Francisco— oh God—” My legs kicked, muscles locking up. “It’s— it’s so much—”

“Breathe through it,” he said softly, hand steady on my hip. “You’re not running from anything. Not tonight. Just feel.”

Tears spilled almost instantly. I wasn’t just crying — I was shaking. The pressure of the medication being pushed in felt like it reached my spine, like it was lighting up every nerve and every tired, frayed edge inside me.

I gripped the pillow and sobbed. “It’s too much—”

“No,” he whispered. “It’s exactly what you needed.”

And somehow, I believed him.

It felt like forever. Like the pain was peeling something open. Forcing me out of the spin cycle of my mind. Forcing me to be here.

When the needle finally slid out, I collapsed forward, chest heaving, cheeks soaked.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. He just sat next to me and rubbed slow circles on my back until my breathing returned.

And in that quiet, raw moment, something shifted.

For the first time in days, my mind was silent.

No racing thoughts. No deadlines. No spirals. Just heat, and ache, and air.

I felt centered again.

“I needed that,” I whispered. “More than I even knew.”

Francisco nodded. “I knew.”

“Thanks for not doubting me.”

“I never do,” he said.

Aftercare followed — the usual rhythm. Suppository. Gentle touch. A second one, too — to help the tension dissolve. His hands moved carefully over the deep ache, massaging the sting into stillness. I groaned, hissed, and laughed when he pressed too hard — but I didn’t fight it.

Because I wasn’t fighting anything anymore.

I wasn’t spinning.

I was grounded. Raw, but whole.

Still just friends.

But the kind of friends who can sit in silence, soaked in tears and trust, and know they just walked each other through something sacred.