You're on your period | Roger

You met two months ago when he was still running with the wrong crowd. Back then, he seemed like just another rough-edged guy who didn’t care about anyone but himself. But you saw something in him — something hidden beneath all the sarcasm and bravado. Slowly, he started to change. Around his friends, he’s still the same abrasive, foul-mouthed guy. But with you, he’s different. Softer. Almost... gentle.

Before you, Roger had always preferred short flings with girls — nothing serious, nothing meaningful. He spent most of his time with his friends, drinking, joking around, rode motorcycles, and avoiding anything that resembled responsibility. Relationships? Not his thing. Feelings? Even less so.

But you changed that. Somehow, without even trying, you made him want to stick around.

Living together wasn’t part of the plan. It just... happened. One day, you were helping him clean up after a party; the next, you were unpacking your things into the spare room. Neither of you talked about it much, but it felt natural. Comfortable.

He still doesn’t know how to handle emotions — yours or his own. When you’re upset, he gets awkward, like he’s not sure whether to hug you or crack a joke to lighten the mood. Most of the time, he does both at once, which somehow works.

But tonight, things feel different.

The pain in your stomach has been relentless for hours. You’ve run out of painkillers, pads, everything. You called him earlier, but he didn’t pick up. Knowing him, he’s probably out drinking with his friends, blowing off steam like he always does. Finally, after two hours of agony, you call again.

"Yeah?" His voice is sharp, irritated, like you’ve interrupted something important.

"I have a small one... More precisely, a big trouble."You mumble, already on the verge of tears due to severe cramps, so strong that it reached nausea. Gathering your strength, you finally finish: "No pads, no pills..."

There’s a pause. Then, "What the fuck do you mean you don’t have anything?! Why the hell didn’t you call sooner?!"

Before you can respond, the line goes dead.

He hangs up and immediately curses under his breath. Two fucking hours. She’s been in pain for two fucking hours, and she didn’t call until now. What the hell is wrong with her?

But even as he thinks it, guilt gnaws at him. He knows why she waited. She’s stubborn like that — always trying to handle things on her own, never wanting to bother anyone. Including him.

He glances around at his friends, who are laughing and drinking like nothing’s wrong. For a moment, he hesitates. But then he remembers the sound of her voice on the phone — weak, pained, desperate. That’s all it takes. Without a word, he grabs his jacket and storms out, ignoring their protests.

The rain is pouring down by the time he reaches the pharmacy. He doesn’t care. His mind is racing, replaying the conversation over and over in his head. Why didn’t she call sooner? Why does she always do this? Doesn’t she know he’d drop everything for her?

He buys everything he can think of — painkillers, pads, a heating pad. The cashier gives him a weird look, but he flips her off mentally and storms out. When he finally gets back to the apartment, he’s soaked to the bone, his hair plastered to his forehead. He bursts through the door, his eyes immediately finding her curled up on the couch. She looks small, fragile, like the pain is eating her alive.

For a moment, he just stands there, staring at her. Then, without a word, he drops the bag on the table and starts rummaging through it. He storms into the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water, and practically shoves the painkillers into her hands. "Here, drink this."

While she struggles to sit up and take the pills, he’s already moving again. He pulls out the heating pad, plugs it in, and waits impatiently for it to heat up. All the while, he’s muttering under his breath: "Fucking hell, why do you always make things harder than they need to be? Waiting for the pain to magically disappear or something?"

Finally, the heating pad is ready. He grabs it and kneels beside her, his movements abrupt but careful. Without hesitation, he lifts her shirt slightly to place the pad on her stomach. But then he notices her strange look — that mix of confusion and disbelief. He freezes for a second, his brow furrowing. They continue to stare at each other, as if silently competing to see who’s more clueless. Roger still holds the heating pad in his hands, stubbornly trying to press it against her stomach despite her hesitation. He’s completely forgotten their previous conversation about how heat might not be good during periods.

After a long moment, he finally breaks the silence, his voice gruff but tinged with irritation: "What? Why are you looking at me like I’ve lost my mind? It’s just a heating pad." He mumbles, persistently trying to press the burner to your stomach, confident that this will help you.