A Nice Guy

33

When we get back to my place, I let Hazel take my bed for the night while I take the couch. It felt like the right thing to do in the moment, after everything that happened. And after all, sleeping in the same bed on day one probably would've been jumping in too soon.

This is my chance to completely change her perspective of me. Offering to sleep on the couch was a nice gesture, and she'll take note of that. As long as I continue being kind and considerate, she'll be willing to marry me in no time. I just hope that convincing her won't take very long.

I hear the shower turn on as I lay on the couch, staring at the ceiling. The TVs playing the show Friends, and I was watching it for a while before the sound of Hazel walking around in my bedroom stole my attention. I listen to the rings slide against the rod as she slides the shower curtain open. I close my eyes, picturing her naked and sudsy, using my loofa to clean her bare body.

I reach for my dick, ready to masturbate, but freeze when I notice Hazel staring at me from my bedroom's doorway. She's completely naked, and I almost don't notice how red and blotchy her face is from crying. Her tits are just so fucking distracting. "Hey, what's wrong?" I gently ask her, sitting up.

She takes in a shaky, uneven breath as a few tears slide down her cheeks. "I don't want to be alone right now," she says. I feel like I just hit the lottery. My heart starts to race with excitement and adrenaline. Fuck, this is too easy. This is way too easy.

"What can I do to help?" I ask, as if I don't already know.

She doesn't answer, instead she extends her hand, as if telling me to take it. I obey. She leads me into the bathroom with her, then gently pulls at my shirt, as if telling me to remove it. She's still crying; it's a silent cry, a broken one. I remove my clothes and we step into the shower together.

I wash her hair, intently massaging her scalp with my mint scented shampoo. I lightly comb my fingers through the ends, attempting to remove the tangles I'd created. I rinse her hair, combing through it some more, because it's the only time her light sobbing subsides. My hands find their way to her shoulders, and I give her the lightest massage I'm capable of.

I wash her body with a pine scented soap. I let the foam build up, covering her with it until it eventually slides down to the floor and disappears into the drain. I lather her again, and again, and again. I clean her with my bare hands, silently admiring every inch of her body. Tears keep spilling from her eyes, though.

When we're out of the shower, I dry her off. I wrap a towel around her body, and grab another for her hair. I lead her into the bedroom and have her sit on the edge of the bed, placing the towel over her shoulders and under her hair. I pull on a pair of boxers, then begin to comb through her tangles, soaking the comforter underneath her with water droplets. She's done crying now.

It takes a while, but eventually her hair is smooth and knotless. I stand in front of her, parting her hair in the front as a final touch. I know she's staring up at me, but I refrain from meeting her gaze; afraid my urges will overwhelm me if I do. I want this night to remain clean, which is strange, I know. But I feel like right now she needs me to be wholesome and loving, and above all non-sexual.

I comb through her hair some more, even though it's already silky smooth. It reminds me of a night we shared a couple years back. When we were drinking over at her house with Derrick, and we all ended up pretty drunk. Derrick had passed out on the couch, and Hazel decided to shower before going to sleep as well. I was about to go home, but after her shower, she asked me to brush her hair, using the excuse of being too sleepy to do it herself.

So I brushed her hair while we watched forensic files. It wasn't my first choice of entertainment, but it was her favorite show, so we watched it as I gently brushed all of the tangles out. When I was done, I told her I was going to head out, but she gave this pouty face. "Two more minutes?" She asked. I rolled my eyes. Two minutes turned into twenty. I brushed her hair over and over as she sat on the floor in front of me while I sat on the couch. She silently watched the eerie documentary, completely captivated by it.

Back then, I guess you could say I had feelings for her. I mean, they weren't as strong as they are now of course, but they were there. I cared for her, maybe even loved her, but back then she was just my beautiful best friend. Back then, I respected her marriage and was very good friends with Derrick. I wonder if I'd unknowingly been planning to steal her from him all along.

Anyways, I finally set the wide tooth comb aside. She's still staring at me, but I refuse to meet her eyes. I squeeze a bit of lotion in the palm of my hand, rubbing it together in my hands to warm it up before smoothing it over her arms. I repeat the process, this time smoothing the lotion over her legs. I stop at her knees, not daring to let myself explore above them.

I search through my drawers for a large shirt for her to sleep in, and also some loose boxers. When I find them, I dress her, as if she's incapable of doing it herself. I don't mind it, though. I'd do anything for her.

I pull back a corner of the fluffy comforter, allowing her to slip inside. I tuck her in, then place a kiss on her forehead. I turn to leave, but she grabs my hand. "Where are you going?" She asks. Finally, I look at her. Her eyes are filled to the brim with desperation. "Stay with me."

"Of course," I tell her.

So I pull back the comforter once more, allowing myself to enter the warmth it provided. I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling. I think about everything that's happened; the good and the bad. Everything that's led to this point. I think about all of the accusations, and how they're not just accusations, but the truth.

Hazel rolls over, facing me. She sets her head on my shoulder, causing her cold, wet hair to stick to my skin. She rests her hand over my chest, noticeably breathing in my scent. I listen as her breaths grow shallow as she slips into a deep sleep.

I'm not delusional, I know what I did was wrong and that I'm a fucking bastard for doing it. I'm fully aware of my poor choices. I can finally admit to myself that I am in fact a rapist, that I took advantage of multiple women to get what I wanted. I'm a sick individual whose desires outweigh any morals or values I once possessed. I've done many things that are wrong.

But the thing is, I don't fucking care.

And if I had to do it all over again to reach this same outcome, I would.