So Goddamn Selfish.

Light. Small fragments of it trickle in through my bedroom window, the sun making its best effort to disturb my peace. The shade barely holds back the intensity of a day that’s started without warning.

My attempt to crawl back to the peaceful corner of my mind is interrupted by the pounding in my head — a reminder of the mistakes I made last night.

I stretch my arms and feel one tighten around my side — another reminder of those mistakes.

“Fuck,” I mumble.

Between the light pulsing through the window, the relentless pounding in my head, and the stranger sleeping next to me, that peaceful corner of my mind feels further and further away.

“Mmm,” the stranger growls as he pulls me close to his muscular chest and somehow I find a moment of peace. 

I rest my chin on his chest and look at his face. His strong, dark features are peaceful as he effortlessly maintains the kind of unconsciousness I wish I could reach.

Something in that peace pulls me back to that corner of my mind that was just moments ago out of reach.

***

Poking. Soft, deliberate.

I peel one eye open to find the stranger from last night pressing slow kisses into my cheek, then down to my neck.

His body slides against mine, warm and wanting, silently asking for more.

I feel my peace drifting away again.

The stranger pulls me back into the torment that is consciousness.

The light. The pounding. The poking. The mistakes.

Then he draws me closer, and I find a new kind of peace.

His touch. His grip on my arm. The feel of his fingertips exploring my body — a distraction strong enough to pull me away from the light and the pounding.

“Fuck me.” The words come out before I can stop them, and the stranger doesn’t hesitate.

He flips me onto my stomach with a grip that doesn’t ask.

Spits.

Then pushes inside — tearing through whatever peace I had left.

It hurts, but it’s the kind of hurt that distracts. The kind I crave when everything else feels too loud.

His grip tightens, and I finally stop thinking.

No light. No pounding. Just him. Just this.

For a moment, I forget where I am.

Who I am.

The promise of peace.

But promises are quiet.

His breath in my ear is louder.

His pace picks up, rough and careless, like he knows I won’t stop him.

Like he knows I need this more than I’ll admit.

My fingers clutch the sheets, but they slip. Everything does.

He says something — a name, maybe mine, maybe not. I don’t care.

I arch into it, into him, chasing something I know won’t last.

A release. A blackout. A break in the static.

His hands are everywhere now — gripping, grabbing, taking —

and I let him.

Because this is easier than honesty.

Because this hurts in the right places.

The bed creaks. The walls echo. I bite my lip so hard I taste blood.

And still, it’s not enough.

I want him deeper. Harder. I want to disappear completely.

I want to be ruined.

He groans — low, guttural — and drives into me one last time,

deeper, harder, like he’s trying to leave a mark.

Then he stills.

His breath catches, his body tenses, and I feel the warmth spill inside me.

No condom.

No question.

Just release.

A selfish, stupid, final thrust.

No tenderness. No connection. Just another man who took what he wanted and left the rest of me scattered.

My body aches. My head pounds.

And now, I’m wide awake in a room I don’t want to be in,

with a man who doesn’t know me

and never will.

I stare at the ceiling, empty and buzzing,

my peace now just another casualty.

And worst of all—

I invited the war in.

Eventually, he sits up. Still naked, still glowing with that dumb post-orgasm warmth.

He looks down at me and smiles — soft, sweet, too earnest for how little I feel.

“You’re incredible,” he says, brushing hair from my face like he knows me.

I force a smile back. Nod once. Nothing more.

He kisses my shoulder, says he should probably go — something about an early meeting or traffic or brunch with friends. I don’t really listen.

I just say, “Yeah, totally.”

He pulls on his clothes, one piece at a time, humming some tune I don’t recognize.

I watch him without watching, already somewhere else in my head —

counting down the seconds until the door shuts.

And when it does,

I exhale.

Not a dramatic sigh, not a sob — just that quiet, grateful release that comes when the noise finally stops.

I didn’t cum. Didn’t even come close.

But he did. And now I get my bed back.

A fair trade.

I curl into the sheets, still warm with someone else’s body heat,

and wait for it to fade.

I lie there for a while, staring at the ceiling.

Sheets twisted around me, skin sticky, brain buzzing.

It wasn’t the worst hookup I’ve had.

He was sweet. Polite. He even tried.

But I didn’t want him.

Not really.

I wanted quiet.

I wanted out of my head, out of my feelings, out of that moment when the sun first hit my face and the weight of everything came flooding back in.

I thought if I gave someone access to my body, maybe they’d take the rest of it too — the chaos, the noise, the ache I can’t name.

But no one ever does.

They just leave. And I stay.

Alone. But not lonely.

Not today.

Because here’s the truth: protecting your peace doesn’t always look like self-care candles and herbal tea.

Sometimes it looks like letting someone fuck you just so they’ll go away.

Sometimes it looks like silence. Like locking the door. Like not texting back.

I used to think peace meant happiness.

Now I think it just means less noise.

And right now, in this bed, alone again —

this is the quietest it’s been all morning.

And that’s enough.

So goddamn selfish —

Carving out peace from the chaos.

Even if it means breaking everything else in the process.