A Nice Guy

38

The next four weeks pass by with ease. The days move quickly, and we've fallen into a comfortable rhythm within them.

Hazel has yet to bring up the fact that I'd raped her again. Instead, she's resumed her college classes, and she's also started eating consistently without me having to force her.

I'm proud of her, honestly. I'm glad she's focusing on important things, rather than arguing about the past. After all, there's nothing to be done about something that's already happened. Might as well move on.

I work all of the days I'm meant to, leaving her home alone more often. I guess it's helped her mood, being alone, because she's smiling more and going out of her way to have conversations with me. They're mostly about the baby, but lately those are my favorite conversations.

Speaking of the baby, she asked me to pick a name. I said no at first—that seemed like something too important for me to choose, but she insisted. So I spent the next few days constantly thinking about names, obsessing over choosing the perfect one. I decided on Bonnie.

Anyways, like I was saying. The days are easy, consisting of zero arguments—mainly because we're too preoccupied on preparing the house for Bonnie. Between baby proofing, stocking up, and renovating the spare room to turn it into a nursery, Hazel doesn't have time to hate me, neither can she afford to. She needs me to help her right now, and for the next eighteen years to come.

I'm hoping it's not just eighteen years, though. I'm hoping to be in Hazel's life indefinitely. I just need to be a great father to our child and a great partner to her, and as long as I can do that, I'll get what I want.

The more I talk about Bonnie, the more Hazel's eyes seem to sparkle at me. It's like she's falling in love with the way I'm constantly thinking about our baby. It comes naturally because I've always wanted to be a dad. I've just never wanted to make anyone a mother.

But I know Hazel will make a great mother. She's proven it time and time again through the years of us knowing each other. I remember hanging out at her house one day, watching a basketball game with Derrick back when we were genuinely friends. Hazel was babysitting her neighbor's baby, and I watched her from the couch. It was impossible not to.

The way she looked at him, rocking him in her arms like her own child, humming the softest notes to help put him to sleep. I knew right away she had this natural maternal instinct to her, and I also knew she wanted a baby of her own.

I'm kind of proud of myself for setting things up the way I have. Yeah, I know, the way I went about it was unethical and deranged, sure. But honestly, give me some credit here. Even with the countless obstacles standing in the way of us being together, look at us now. All thanks to me.

Anyways, it's July nineteenth. Hazel could go into labor any day now. She's been crying to me about how scared she is to give birth. She's scared to the point she consistently has nightmares about it.

So I've been trying to help her prepare, researching different ways to get her body ready. Coincidentally enough, I read that sex can help to some extent. Don't ask me what exactly it can help with, I don't remember, I just know that once I tell Hazel, she might just go for it.

We haven't fucked in four weeks, since I—well, you know. I haven't attempted anything since then. I've felt too guilty, which is strange because I never feel guilty. I think it's because it was different from the other times. I made her bleed, I'd never done that before. It was like I genuinely hurt her, and I'm just not that type of person, so it messed with me.

Anyways, I end up telling her about my research, about sex helping with labor. I lie a little bit, telling her the internet says it'll make it less painful to have the baby, and that it will also reduce the amount of time she'll be in labor. Sure, there could possibly be some truth to what I said, but I'm just saying anything that'll make her want to fuck me.

"Oh really?" She asks, cocking her head to the side. "It sounds like you just want to have sex."

I roll my eyes. We're sitting on the couch watching forensic files. Shes got her head on my shoulder while I rub her stomach. It's late, and all the lights are off, causing the show to feel that much more ominous.

"Yes, really," I tell her. "It's the most practical solution, and it's also free." I glance over at her, pretending to watch the show, but I don't care about finding out who started the random house fire they're currently talking about. I don't give a flying fuck.

My dicks hard just talking about the possibility of sex, and it's driving me crazy how she's living with me now, and somehow we're having less sex than before. It's driving me even crazier how she only wears an oversized t-shirt around the house lately. No bra, no panties. Apparently it's much more comfortable for her, I don't know. All I know is that I've had to jerk off in the bathroom twice a day since she started doing that shit.

I feel her shift closer to me. "At this point I'm desperate to try anything," she says.

I stare at the TV, avoiding her eyes, acting as if I hadn't heard her. Of course I did, though. I just didn't think I'd get away with bringing up sex as a solution. I was sure she'd roll her eyes and tell me to fuck off or something, so now I've got to think about what my next move should be.

She leans in close to me, letting her lips brush against my ear as she whispers into it. "Fuck me like last time."

Like a switch is flipped, I clench my teeth and raise my hand to her throat. I don't understand how she could want me to do that to her again, but it doesn't matter—she's smiling at me with my hand wrapped around her neck, I don't have time to try to understand her thought process.

I push her back, slamming her down against the cushions. She grins, pulling me down by my shirt so I'm forced to kiss her, but I don't want to. I pull away from her, grabbing at her legs instead and pushing them apart, exposing her.

I glance at her face; it's flushed pink and her lips are parted just enough for her to take in quick, shallow breaths. "Just do it already," she demands.

I push myself in, but I don't allow myself to fuck her with as much force as last time; that was just inhumane. Instead, I go easy on her, thrusting quickly but gently.

She huffs in annoyance. "Harder, Alex." I shake my head, ignoring her. I'm not doing that again. I can't—I won't. It's just not right.

A sharp pain stings my cheek, spreading across my skin like wild fire. It takes me a moment to realize what just happened, that she just slapped me. I'm so fucking tired of her slapping me.

She wants me to fuck her like last time? Fine. I will. And so I do, but instead of telling me it hurts, she's grinning, moaning and tossing her head back. As the seconds pass, she soaks the couch's fabric underneath us. It's an abnormal amount of liquid, and it's making it impossible to feel anything, so I pull out.

Fuck. Her water just broke.