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livewithgratitude · 8 days ago

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🍀THE BOYFRIEND CYCLE

It starts the same way every month.

A slow, hazy awareness pulls you from sleep, something feeling off. Your body is too warm, your skin alive with sensation, your mind clouded with an unspoken need. Restlessness hums beneath your skin, an ache both undefined and undeniable. Your sheets feel too heavy, your body too sensitive, and no matter how much you toss and turn, sleep refuses to claim you.

And then—

A warm hand grazes your thigh.

"Morning, babe."

The voice is rich, deep, and entirely too comfortable in your space.

Your breath catches. Your eyes snap open.

A man.

A beautiful, unreasonably attractive man is lounging in your bed like he belongs there—shirtless, tousled, and smirking at you like he knows exactly what your body is going through.

Golden skin bathed in morning light, dark hair deliciously messy, a lazy, knowing smirk curving his lips—like he’s been here all along, like he’s yours. His arm drapes over your waist, fingers tracing light, teasing patterns against your bare skin, and he looks perfectly at home, stretched out beside you with a mix of confidence and mischief that makes your stomach flip.

Your brain flatlines.

"Who the hell are you?"

He chuckles, deep and amused, rolling onto his side. His elbow props against the pillow, his head resting against his palm as he watches you with a slow, deliberate once-over—taking in your tousled hair, your flushed cheeks, the way your chest rises and falls in startled confusion.

"Babe," he drawls, voice thick with amusement, "don’t act like you don’t know me."

You scramble back so fast you nearly fall off the bed, pressing yourself against the headboard as if the distance will make him any less overwhelming.

"I don’t!"

He sighs, like this is the most exhausting conversation he’s ever had. He drags a hand through his already-messy hair, letting out a low hum before fixing you with a look so devastatingly smug, it should be illegal.

"I’m Brian," he says smoothly, tapping a finger against his chest before flashing you a lazy grin. "Your boyfriend for ovulation week."

Your stomach does a violent somersault.

"My what?!"

"You heard me."

Before you can process that, he moves closer—close enough that his body heat wraps around you, close enough that the scent of him—woodsy, musky, intoxicatingly male—floods your senses. You don’t even like strong colognes, but somehow, on him, it’s devastating.

He’s watching you like he knows.

"Relax, sweetheart," he murmurs, voice low, smooth as silk. "I’m here to take care of you. Give you exactly what you need."

Your pulse stutters.

His fingers trail up your arm, featherlight, sending a shiver down your spine.

You gulp. "And what do I need?"

His lips quirk, a slow, knowing grin.

"Oh, babe," he murmurs, his thumb brushing your bottom lip. His voice drops to something dangerously soft, teasing. "Me."

Oh.

Oh no.

This is going to be a problem.

—

Brian is dangerous.

Not in the life-threatening sense, but in the I will absolutely ruin your sense of self-control kind of way.

He moves with the confidence of someone who knows he’s irresistible—and unfortunately, your body seems to agree.

Every glance, every teasing remark, every subtle touch he leaves on your skin feels like a slow, torturous game. A test of how long you can pretend you don’t want him.

And the worst part?

He knows.

You catch him watching you with amusement when you cross your legs tightly, shifting in your seat as if that will somehow shake the feeling of needing him. He smirks when your breath hitches at the accidental brush of his fingers against yours. And when you pretend to be unaffected, he just leans in closer—like he’s daring you to break first.

"You’re cute when you try to resist me," he muses one night, arms braced on either side of you against the kitchen counter.

You glare up at him, ignoring the way your heart slams against your ribs.

"Shut up."

He hums, his lips just barely brushing your ear.

"Make me."

Your grip on sanity is hanging by a thread.

But Brian never pushes.

That’s the thing about him—he doesn’t need to.

He waits. He lets you be the one to break first.

And when you do—when you finally fist his shirt, dragging him in for a kiss that steals the breath from your lungs—he groans against your lips, murmuring, "That’s my girl."

And God help you, you don’t even think to stop him.

—

Brian ruins you.

He kisses you like he’s memorizing the shape of your lips, like he knows exactly what you need before you do. He teases, pulls away just enough to make you chase him, smirking against your skin when he feels the shudder of impatience in your body.

"Admit it," he whispers one night, his fingers tracing slow, lazy patterns against your thigh.

"Admit what?" you manage, breathless.

He smirks, tipping your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"You need me."

You don’t answer.

But when he moves to pull away—when his warmth starts to disappear—you whimper, fingers curling into his shirt to keep him close.

And Brian just laughs, pressing a kiss to your jaw.

"That’s what I thought, babe."

But as always, the cycle never lasts.

Because just as quickly as he appeared, Brian disappears.

One moment, he’s pressing kisses down your neck, murmuring things that make your stomach flip. The next, he’s gone—leaving behind nothing but the ghost of his touch.

You wake up alone.

The sheets are cold. The bed smells like him. Your skin remembers him.

And you hate how much you miss him.

But there’s no time to mourn—because just as you’re curling back into bed, the next one arrives.

Wonpil arrives like the first breath of calm after a storm.

You don’t even know how long you’ve been lying there—curled up on the couch, wrapped in the same blanket you’ve had on for days, staring blankly at your phone screen. Your body still feels feverish from Brian’s touch, but the fire he ignited has long since burned out, leaving behind an ache you can’t explain.

And then—

A knock.

Soft. Tentative. Like the person on the other side already knows you might not be in the mood for company but wants to check anyway.

Your chest tightens.

For a moment, you debate staying still, ignoring it, letting the weight of your exhaustion and emotions keep you glued in place. But before you can decide, the door creaks open.

"Hey, love."

The voice is as familiar as a favorite song—gentle, soothing, full of understanding.

Your head lifts sluggishly, and there he is.

Wonpil stands in the doorway with two mugs of tea in his hands. His hair is slightly damp, as if he’d walked through a drizzle to get here, his oversized sweater hanging loosely off one shoulder. There’s a softness in his expression that undoes you completely—like he sees the exhaustion in your eyes, the weight in your posture, and loves you anyway.

Like he already knows.

Something inside you cracks wide open.

You don’t say anything. You don’t explain. You just reach for him.

And Wonpil—sweet, steady, unwavering—doesn’t hesitate.

The mugs are set down with quiet care, and in the next breath, you’re in his arms.

His chest is warm, solid, smelling faintly of chamomile and fresh linen. His embrace is secure but never restricting, one hand smoothing over your hair, the other resting gently at your back. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask what’s wrong or why are you crying—he just holds you.

And that’s all it takes for the dam to break.

A shuddering breath escapes you, then another, and suddenly, the sobs come—silent at first, then wracking, shaking, endless. You bury your face into the fabric of his sweater, clinging to him like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered.

Wonpil only tightens his hold, cradling the back of your head, his lips pressing softly against your temple.

"It’s okay," he murmurs, voice as steady as the ground beneath you. "I’m here. Let it out."

So you do.

You cry until your shoulders ache, until your fingers go numb from gripping onto him so tightly. You cry for reasons you can’t even name—because the world feels too loud, because everything is overwhelming, because one moment you feel like the saddest person alive, and the next, you want to fight the sun for existing.

Because you watched a puppy video earlier and nearly sobbed at how small its paws were. Because your favorite hoodie suddenly feels like the enemy. Because you want to be held and left alone at the same time. Because your emotions are swinging so violently from one extreme to the other that you don’t even know who you are right now.

Because this happens every single month, and you’re so, so tired of it.

"It’s not fair," you whisper, voice hoarse. "We just have to go through this. Every damn month. No break, no choice. Just pain, and exhaustion, and—" Your breath shudders. "I hate it. I hate that it’s normal."

Wonpil exhales softly, his grip on you tightening, as if trying to shield you from something he can’t fight.

"I know, love." His voice is quiet, but there’s an undercurrent of something deep and raw—anger, maybe. Not at you, but for you. "It shouldn’t be this hard. And yet you go through it, again and again."

He pulls back slightly, just enough to cup your face in his hands. His thumbs brush away the tears on your cheeks, his gaze unwavering, heavy with the weight of everything he wants to take from you but can’t.

"You shouldn’t have to be this strong," he says, and it makes you ache all over again.

—

Wonpil doesn’t try to fix you.

He just is.

He moves through your space as if he’s always belonged there—cleaning up the mess you’ve ignored for days, gathering the mugs and plates you left untouched, tidying up the small corners of your life without making a big deal about it.

He doesn’t ask if you’re hungry. He just makes something light, sets it in front of you, and brushes a gentle hand against yours until you take a bite.

When you start overthinking, retreating into yourself, he doesn’t let you drown in it.

Instead, he pulls you close—tugging you into his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You curl into his warmth, and he plays with your fingers absentmindedly, tracing slow patterns against your skin.

"Whatever you’re worrying about," he says, voice light but firm, "it can wait. Just breathe with me."

But the guilt creeps in.

You should be doing more. You should be better. You should be stronger.

And then it spirals—self-doubt, exhaustion, the unbearable weight of just existing. Your body betrays you, your emotions turn violent, and suddenly, you’re drowning in a cycle no one truly understands.

It’s knowing that tomorrow might be better, but today?

Today, you feel like you’re unraveling.

Everyone thinks it’s just hormones, like it’s some minor inconvenience, like it’s not a battle you fight every single month. Like it doesn’t reach deep inside you and rip you apart, making you question everything—your worth, your sanity, your ability to just exist without feeling like you’re too much and not enough at the same time.

Like it doesn’t make you wonder, even for just a fleeting second, why am I even here?

Wonpil’s arms tighten around you as if he already knows.

As if he can feel it—the weight, the suffocating pressure, the way your mind turns against you.

"You’re enough," he interrupts, voice steady.

You shake your head, throat closing up. “I don’t feel like I am.”

"That doesn’t make it true."

He cups your face gently, tilting your chin up until your eyes meet his. His gaze is unwavering—soft but so sure.

"You are enough, exactly as you are. Even when you don’t feel like it. Even when you don’t believe it. Even when your mind tells you otherwise."

Your lips tremble. “What if I never feel like I’m enough?”

Wonpil exhales, pressing his forehead against yours, grounding you with the warmth of his presence.

"Then I’ll keep reminding you."

—

One night, he sings to you.

It happens naturally, like it was always meant to unfold this way.

You’re lying with your head in his lap, staring at the ceiling, lost in thought. The world outside is quiet, the soft hum of the city muffled by the safety of your apartment. Wonpil’s fingers trace slow, rhythmic patterns along your arm—grounding you, keeping you present.

And then—

A melody.

Soft at first, just a hum, the vibrations of it thrumming through his chest, traveling into you. Then, his voice follows—low and warm, like the gentle flicker of candlelight, wrapping around you with a tenderness that makes your throat close up.

Your chest tightens.

"You’re unfair," you whisper, eyes burning. You clutch the fabric of his sweater, voice small, raw. "I don’t want you to go."

Wonpil’s hand pauses.

A beat of silence.

Then, so, so softly—

"I know."

His fingers trace lazy circles on your arm as he adds, “But it’s my role, remember?”

You frown. “What role?”

He smiles. “I’m your Emotional Haven Boyfriend.”

Your brain stalls. “…You what?”

Wonpil chuckles. “It’s part of the cycle. Brian wrecks you, I patch you up. Standard procedure.”

You blink up at him, still in awe of how the universe—or whatever strange force governs your life—has somehow assigned you a boyfriend for every stage of your cycle. It’s ridiculous. It’s bizarre. It’s—honestly—kind of impressive.

And yet, here Wonpil is, embodying comfort itself, holding you like he was made for this moment.

You let out a breathless laugh, shaking your head. “This can’t be real.”

Wonpil hums, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Just relax, love. You’re safe with me.”

But the next morning, he’s gone.

The apartment feels emptier without him, like the warmth he left behind is already fading. The blanket still smells like him. The tea he made is still sitting on the table, untouched.

And just as the weight of his absence settles—

The cramps start.

No dramatic entrance. No teasing smirks. Just the solid weight of a heating pad pressed into your hands, a bar of chocolate set beside you, and a quiet presence that feels like relief.

You blink up at him from where you’re curled on the couch, already half-dead from cramps, wrapped in your thickest blanket like a pitiful, suffering creature.

"Who—?"

"Eat," he says simply, nodding toward the chocolate.

You obey without question.

Because Dowoon isn’t the kind of guy you argue with. He doesn’t ask if you want something—he just knows what you need and makes sure you have it.

—

Dowoon is different.

Where Brian was temptation and Wonpil was comfort, Dowoon is stability.

He doesn’t hover or fuss. He doesn’t fill the air with empty reassurances or ask what’s wrong when the answer is obvious. He just observes, understands, and acts.

When you shift uncomfortably, pressing a hand to your stomach, he moves behind you, strong hands finding your lower back. His thumbs press into just the right spots, kneading slow, steady circles until the pain eases, until you exhale a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

When you zone out from exhaustion, his voice anchors you—low and steady, breaking through the haze.

"Drink," he murmurs, nudging a warm cup into your hands.

You don’t even have the energy to argue. You just sip, letting the warmth seep through you, and he watches until he’s satisfied that you won’t neglect yourself.

And when the pain is too much, when you’ve exhausted every remedy and you’re still miserable, he doesn’t tell you to push through or be strong.

Instead, he lets you collapse against him, his hoodie soft against your cheek, his arm solid around your shoulder.

"I know," he says quietly, like he really, really does.

—

Dowoon doesn’t need words to show love.

He won’t make grand speeches or theatrical gestures. But somehow, he’s always prepared.

He knows which painkillers work best for you, which foods you can tolerate when your stomach feels awful, and that one brand of tea that helps—even though you always insist it doesn’t.

He stocks your kitchen with everything you might need before you even ask.

He wakes up before you just to make sure the heating pad is warm again.

He listens, even when you don’t say anything.

And somehow, no matter how insufferable you get, he never wavers.

Not even when you’re at your absolute worst.

"Dowoon," you whimper one night, buried under three layers of blankets, your face smooshed into his hoodie. You clutch at his sleeve weakly, tugging. "It hurts."

"I know," he says simply, adjusting his arm so you can rest more comfortably against his chest.

"Fix it," you mumble, barely conscious.

He doesn’t say I can’t.

He just reaches for another heating pad, pressing it gently against your stomach, then tucks the blanket more securely around you. His hand settles on your back, steady and grounding.

"Here," he murmurs, shifting so you can burrow deeper into his warmth. "Better?"

You don’t respond—not with words. But your fingers curl into his hoodie, gripping lightly, as if anchoring yourself to him.

He notices.

He doesn’t say anything about it. He just lets you stay.

Because Dowoon is the period boyfriend—the one who doesn’t just endure your worst, but embraces it. The one who doesn’t ask you to be okay, but stays beside you until you are.

When the pain finally fades, so does he.

And then, in the quiet aftermath, the last one arrives.

Sungjin shows up when the cycle has drained you completely.

His arrival is simple—no grand entrance, no unnecessary words. Just the soft rustling of movement in your space, quiet and sure. One moment, you're sprawled out on the couch, feeling wrung out and empty after surviving the past three weeks. The next, there’s a presence in the room, steady and familiar.

When you lift your head, he’s there.

Sungjin stands in the doorway, watching you with that quiet certainty of someone who has done this before—who has seen you at your worst and loves you just the same. He doesn’t ask how you’re feeling. He doesn’t have to. His gaze already holds the answer, the understanding sinking deep into your bones before he even speaks.

Then, he extends his hand.

"Let’s get some fresh air."

It’s not a request. It’s not even a suggestion. It’s an invitation.

And something about the way he says it—calm, assured, like he already knows you need it—makes you take his hand without hesitation.

His grip is firm, warm, grounding. And as he leads you outside, guiding you away from the exhaustion and weight of the past month, you let out a breath you didn’t even realize you were holding.

Like maybe, just maybe, you can start again.

—

The post-period phase is like standing at the edge of something new. Your body, exhausted from battle, is slowly regaining strength. Your emotions, frayed and stretched thin, are settling into something quieter.

The world feels softer, lighter.

The air is crisp, a quiet contrast to the chaos of the past few weeks. The streets are mostly empty, the world moving at a slower pace. You walk side by side, your steps falling into an easy rhythm with his.

Sungjin doesn’t hover. He doesn’t coddle. Instead, he moves at your pace, hands tucked into his pockets as if he’s content just being here with you.

After a while, he speaks. "How do you feel?"

You exhale slowly, watching your breath curl in the cool air. "Tired. Kind of empty, I guess."

Sungjin nods like he expected that answer. He waits a beat before saying, "You did good."

You pause mid-step, blinking up at him. "Huh?"

His gaze meets yours, warm and unwavering. "You survived another month. Even when you felt awful. Even when everything felt too much. You’re here."

Something tightens in your chest.

"You make it sound like I ran a marathon," you mutter, looking away.

"You kind of did," he points out. "Your body went through hell, your emotions were all over the place, and yet you still got through it. That’s not nothing."

You swallow, your throat suddenly tight. "It doesn’t feel like an achievement."

Sungjin sighs, then does something unexpected—he gently tugs your sleeve, pulling you to a stop. When you look up, his expression is serious, steady.

"Listen," he says, voice low, careful. "I know it feels like this is just... normal. Like it’s something you should be able to handle without thinking. But that doesn’t mean it’s not hard. And just because you’ve done it before doesn’t mean it’s any less of a victory."

His fingers brush against yours. It’s the lightest touch, but it anchors you in place.

"I’m proud of you," he says, no hesitation in his voice.

And maybe you don’t fully believe it yet, but the way he says it—steady, certain, like it’s the most natural thing in the world—makes you feel undeniably, unshakably loved.

You don’t respond, but after a moment, you lean into him slightly. He doesn’t say anything about it—just shifts enough to make space for you, letting you rest against him.

The tension in your shoulders finally unwinds. The exhaustion of the past month still lingers, but it no longer feels so suffocating.

For the first time in weeks, you feel okay.

Safe.

Balanced.

Like yourself again.

—

The week passes in this quiet, steady rhythm.

You move through your days without the weight of your body fighting against you. Your mind is clearer. You can focus. There’s no more pain, no more irritability, no more exhaustion weighing you down.

You finally feel in control again.

And Sungjin stays—the steady presence in the background, neither overwhelming nor absent.

He checks in, but never too much. He encourages you to move, but never pushes. He reminds you to take care of yourself, but never makes you feel weak for needing rest.

He resets you—slowly, gently, like grounding a system that’s been thrown off balance for weeks.

—

But just as you begin to settle into the peace, the cycle resets.

And when you wake up the next morning, Brian is there—grinning like he never left.

"Miss me, babe?"

You groan, already feeling the heat rising under your skin.

It’s starting all over again.

God really said, let’s make this bitch suffer forever.