NOT A BAD GUY
VIYANA SINCLAIR
In the evening, I just sat there, absentmindedly running my fingers through my hair, feeling the slight oiliness, the weight of neglect settling in strands that once felt effortless. I frowned a little.
I think I should wash my hair.
The thought came simply… but stayed heavier than it should have.
Maybe I should take a bath too.
It had been two days. The nurse had helped me the day before yesterday, guiding me through something so basic as if I were fragile glass. Yesterday… I skipped it. Today… I couldn’t ignore it anymore.
I shifted slightly, my shoulder protesting with a dull ache.
How was I supposed to do it… alone?
The question lingered, irritating and humiliating all at once. Something so simple, something I had done my entire life without a second thought… now felt like a task I couldn’t even begin.
I let out a frustrated groan, dropping my head back against the wall.
“Great,” I muttered under my breath. “Just great.”
Right then, the sharp sound of the doorbell cut through the quiet.
I stilled.
It’s probably him.
The timing made sense.
For a moment, I didn’t move.
Then slowly, I pushed myself up, my body still heavy, my arm carefully held close… and walked toward the door.
I opened the door and stepped aside as he walked in without a word. The faint smell of outside air followed him—dust, heat, and something tired.
I turned and walked back to the room, each step slow, aware of his presence behind me. Not close… but not distant either.
I sat on the bed carefully, my fingers curling slightly into the fabric as I tried to gather the courage to say it.
He placed his helmet and keys on the table beside the bed, the soft clink breaking the silence between us.
I swallowed.
“I need to take a bath,” I muttered.
The words felt heavier than they should have.
He looked at me. Not surprised. Not mocking. Just… looking.
“Shall I call someone?” he asked.
Simple. Straight.
I blinked for a second.
Glad he didn’t overreact.
“Who will you call?” I asked quietly.
“My friend,” he said.
I shook my head immediately.
“No need.”
The room fell silent again.
The unsaid words lingered between us.
Because both of us understood…
There was only one other option.
“My friend is a girl, by the way,” he muttered.
I gave him a sharp side-eye, unimpressed, and then sighed.
“I can manage,” I said, more to convince myself than him.
Bathing wasn’t the problem. I could somehow figure that part out. I wasn’t that helpless.
But this kurti…
My fingers lightly held the fabric as irritation crept in.
I could remove the pants easily. That wasn’t an issue.
But this… pulling it over my head… lifting both arms…
My injured shoulder throbbed just thinking about it.
I clenched my jaw.
For the first time, something so simple felt so complicated.
“Can you just help me with the dress?” I asked, my voice quieter than usual.
For a moment, he didn’t say anything.
Then he just hummed in response.
I blinked, a little surprised.
“You accepted so easily?” I asked, standing up and looking around for my towel.
He didn’t even look at me.
“I’m a nurse,” he said simply. “I’ve done this for plenty of patients.”
“Good,” I muttered softly.
I took the towel in my hand and walked toward the bathroom, trying to act normal, trying to ignore the strange heaviness settling in my chest. His footsteps followed behind me, steady and unhurried, and for some reason my heartbeat refused to match that calmness.
“You should close your eyes,” I muttered, without turning back.
“Okay,” he replied simply.
I stepped inside, fingers unconsciously fidgeting with the edge of my kurti, suddenly aware of how small the space felt with him in it. The air seemed different too—thicker, quieter, as if even the walls were listening. My hands trembled slightly before I could stop them, and I hated that they did.
“You shouldn’t look,” I said again, softer this time, almost unsure of my own voice.
A pause followed, brief but enough to make my thoughts spiral.
“Or… shall I blindfold you?” I asked, half a warning, half a desperate attempt to hold onto control.
He let out a small sigh.
“I won’t open my eyes,” he said, his voice firmer now, steady in a way that made my own hesitation feel louder.
I exhaled slowly, forcing myself to believe it.
Turning around, I faced away from him and lifted my injured arm slightly, just enough for him to reach the zipper. My fingers curled into my palm as I waited, trying not to think about how close he was, how silent everything had become.
“Hey… wait,” I said suddenly, stopping myself.
I turned halfway, my gaze catching his for a second.
He looked at me, questioning, calm.
I hesitated. The words felt strangely vulnerable on my tongue.
“I want to wash my hair too…” I said quietly.
For a moment, he didn’t respond.
Not immediately. Not with words.
Just a pause—small, but heavy enough to make me overthink everything I had just said.
Then he nodded once.
“Okay,” he said simply.
That one word should have been normal. Neutral. Routine.
But somehow, it made my throat tighten a little.
“First wash my hair, then I’ll take off my clothes,” I said, adjusting my grip on the towel, trying to sound more certain than I felt.
He let out a breath, long and tired, like I was testing his patience on purpose.
“As if I’m dying to see you naked,” he muttered.
I turned my head slightly, irritation flaring immediately.
“Who knows whether you are a creep or not,” I shot back, turning away again before he could respond.
A short scoff escaped him.
He walked past me without another word and pulled a small stool from the corner of the bathroom. The scrape of it against the floor echoed in the tight space.
“Sit,” he said.
One word. Firm. Final.
I hesitated for a second, glancing at the stool like it had suddenly become the most complicated decision of the day.
Then slowly, I sat down.
The tension in my shoulders didn’t leave immediately. If anything, it settled deeper, like my body didn’t trust the situation even if my mind was too tired to argue anymore.
He moved behind me, quiet again, as if switching into something familiar—something practiced.
He scooped a mug of water and paused for a second before gently guiding my head forward.
His hand rested carefully, steadying me—not rough, not hesitant either, just… controlled.
Then the cold water hit my scalp.
I flinched slightly at the sudden chill, but he didn’t stop. He kept his movements slow, letting the water run through my hair in a way that felt almost careful, almost practiced.
“First shampoo and then conditioner,” I reminded quietly, breaking the silence.
He only hummed in response.
No complaint. No sarcasm. Just acceptance of instructions like it was routine for him.
The sound of water continued, filling the small bathroom, mixing with the quietness between us.
For a moment, I sat still and let it happen.
Strangely… it didn’t feel as uncomfortable as it should have.
His fingers moved through my hair next, not rushing, not lingering unnecessarily, just doing what was needed. Professional. Detached. Almost like I truly was just another patient in his care.
He applied the shampoo, fingers moving through my hair with steady, practiced ease, massaging my scalp carefully as if he had done it a thousand times before. The water dripped in soft rhythm, breaking the silence between us in slow, uneven drops.
“You do this for your patients?” I asked, breaking the quiet.
He hummed again.
“For rich ones,” he said simply.
A small smirk tugged at my lips despite myself.
“I am rich too,” I said, tilting my head slightly back, staring at the ceiling as his fingers worked through my hair. “How much are you going to charge me for this?”
There was a pause. Just a beat.
“You don’t even have a penny to give me,” he replied flatly.
That hit a nerve.
I scoffed immediately.
“I will give you money after one year,” I said, offended on principle more than reality. Then I added, softer but still stubborn, “For now… I’ll give you a share in the snacks my brother bought for me.”
For a second, there was silence.
Then I felt it—his hand slowing slightly in my hair.
“You’re very generous,” he muttered with sarcasm.
He poured water over my foam-filled hair, rinsing it slowly and carefully until the white suds disappeared into clear streams. His hands moved with quiet precision, making sure nothing was rushed, nothing missed.
Then came the conditioner, smoother, calmer, his fingers working through my strands with the same steady focus as before.
For a while, there was only the sound of water and silence between us.
When it was finally done, he gathered my hair gently and tied it into a loose bun. The moment felt oddly… finished. Like something small had been completed.
I stood up from the stool slowly, rolling my neck to ease the stiffness.
That’s when I noticed him.
Half his shirt was wet now, clinging faintly to his skin, darkened fabric outlining the effort he didn’t bother complaining about. Water droplets still clung to his sleeves, falling occasionally to the tiled floor.
For a second, I just looked.
And then quickly looked away.
“I can manage to take a bath… but just help me take off the kurti,” I muttered, my voice quieter than I intended.
My heart, for no logical reason, started racing on its own.
He hummed in response.
I turned my back to him slowly, pulling my breath steady as I could feel his presence right behind me. His fingers moved to the zipper, as he unzipped it, careful, deliberate, making sure there was no unnecessary contact.
I turned to face him.
“Close your eyes,” I said softly.
“Okay,” he replied.
His hands found the hem of my kurti and paused there for a second, as if confirming something silently, before gently lifting it upward.
My eyes stayed fixed on him, watching his face carefully, checking if even the slightest expression changed. If he opened his eyes.
But he didn’t.
“Move your hand slowly,” he said, still with his eyes closed.
I hummed in response, lifting my injured arm carefully, trying not to strain it. The moment I raised it a little too far, a sharp sting shot through my shoulder and I winced before I could stop myself.
“Carefully,” he muttered immediately.
Again, calm. Controlled. Alert even without looking.
I nodded faintly. “Haan…”
A small pause followed.
“Can I take off the dress?” he asked, still keeping his eyes shut.
“Yes,” I muttered.
And in that quiet bathroom, with water still dripping faintly somewhere in the background, the moment felt heavier than it should have—like even silence was paying attention.
He removed the kurti carefully, his movements steady and precise even with his eyes still closed. There was no hesitation in him, no awkward pause, only a quiet professionalism that made the moment feel strangely controlled instead of chaotic.
I exhaled slowly, suddenly hyper-aware of everything—of the silence, of the tiled walls, of my own breathing that didn’t seem to want to settle.
The thought came uninvited.
The bra.
How can I ask him to unhook my bra?
Heat crept up my neck immediately, not from pain this time, but from pure awkwardness. I shifted slightly, unsure how to even ask, unsure if I should even ask.
A pause stretched between us.
Then, without opening his eyes, he spoke.
“Don’t feel insecure,” he said calmly. “It’s common to seek help during conditions like this.”
His tone didn’t change. Not even a little.
As if he was stating something from a textbook rather than standing in a bathroom with someone who could barely meet her own thoughts.
I bit my lower lip, looking away instinctively, frustration mixing with embarrassment in a way I couldn’t fully name.
Because somehow…
It wasn’t just the situation that felt difficult anymore.
It was how normal he was making it sound.
I hesitated for a moment, my voice barely coming out.
“U-unhook my bra… please,” I muttered, my gaze dropping immediately, as if the floor suddenly had all the answers I needed.
The silence that followed felt heavier than words. Not judgmental. Not surprised. Just still.
I just want the ground to swallow me whole.
I thought bitterly, hating how small I felt in that moment.
He didn’t say anything. Only a soft hum escaped him, as if acknowledging without making it harder than it already was.
I turned my back to him quickly, pulling the towel tighter over my chest, trying to create whatever sense of safety I could in a situation that had none.
His fingers approached carefully.
A light brush of skin made me flinch instinctively.
“Sorry,” he muttered immediately.
I swallowed and nodded slightly. “It’s… fine.”
I stood still after that, every muscle tense, waiting for it to be over.
A small pause. Then his fingers found the hook—careful, precise—and worked it free without hesitation.
The moment it loosened, I inhaled sharply, stepping away and pulling the towel tighter around myself in an instant.
“Don’t open your eyes,” I said quickly, urgency slipping into my voice.
“I won’t,” he replied calmly.
I wrapped myself properly, making sure everything was covered, heart still racing for reasons I didn’t want to name.
“I can manage,” I said firmly now, though my voice wavered slightly at the edges. “You can go out now.”
He hummed once more and turned without a word, walking out of the bathroom and closing the door behind him. The soft click of the latch settled into the silence, and only then did I finally let out the breath I had been holding.
I leaned back against the wall for a moment, staring at the door as if it might say something back to me. Then slowly, I reached out and locked it. The sound felt final, grounding.
Alone now, I managed to remove my bottoms carefully with one hand, every movement slower than usual, every action reminding me of how much I had to depend on things I never thought I would.
The water ran over my skin as I poured it over myself, warm and steady, washing away the tension little by little. But even then, my mind didn’t stay quiet.
A thought slipped in… uninvited, soft, almost strange in how calm it felt.
Maybe he is not a very bad guy.