Why Working Late Is Suddenly My Favourite Thing
So, I was going to stop making up excuses to run into Hot Neighbour. I really was. Yeah, that lasted approximately zero seconds when I realised working late in the office meant catching him coming home from...whatever bikers do at night. (Still unclear on the details. Still too scared to ask.)
Me
I’m staying late at work again.
Megan
To fix Johnson’s code or to stalk Hot Biker?
Me
Both?
Megan
At least you’re honest.
Me
I’m a complex woman with multiple motivations.
Megan
You’re a disaster with a crush.
Me
Why are we friends?
Megan
Because I enable your poor life choices while pretending to judge them.
But tonight? Tonight was different.
It was 9:30 p.m. I was walking home from the office because I lost track of time fixing Johnson’s latest disaster (seriously considering sending his code to Savage for that “knows people” solution he offered).
I was in my comfort coding clothes. Ripped jeans, faded T-shirt, hair in what can only be described as a bird’s attempt at architecture.
The last time Mrs Primrose saw me in this state, she actually clutched her pearls, and I overheard her telling the Wine Club that my “progressive hairstyle choices” must be “some sort of cyber signal to her hacker collective.” She’s not entirely wrong; my hair does tend to reflect my coding stress levels.
Tonight, it was saying “Johnson’s code made me contemplate arson. ”
Anyway, there he was. Working on his bike in the building’s car park. No shirt. I repeat: NO SHIRT.
(Taking a moment of silence for my dignity, which straight up abandoned me at this point.
Also taking a moment to thank whichever goddess is in charge of shirtless bikers.
Though knowing my luck, any attempt at prayer would probably result in Mrs Primrose adding “potential cult activity” to her theories about me.)
Him: “Bit late to be walking home alone, darlin’.”
My mouth: “Had to finish some work.”
My brain: ABS ABS ABS ABS
What the Wine Club definitely wrote in their observation log: “Subject A (possible cybercriminal) encountered Subject B (suspected undercover model) in state of partial undress. Pearls were clutched.”
He stood up (which was totally unnecessary and completely unfair), grabbed a rag to wipe his hands (also unfair), and then just...looked at me. You know that look that makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world? Yeah. That one.
Him: “You could’ve called. I would’ve picked you up.”
Me: temporarily forgets entire English language
Also me: “Oh, I didn’t...I mean...I don’t have yournumber...”
Him: starts walking towards me “Let’s fix that.”
What I wanted to say: “Yes, please fix everything including my inability to function as a human when you look at me like that.”
What Mr Weatherby was probably writing in his “surveillance notes”: “Potential exchange of secret codes observed. Suspect romance novel research continues.”
He handed me his phone and directed me to put my number in. When I passed it back to him, he sent me a text so that I had his.
AND THEN.
AND. THEN.
His phone rang.
The change in him was instant. One second, he’s looking at me like I’m water in the desert; the next, his whole body goes rigid.
Three words into the call (“Yeah?” “Where?” “When?”) and he’s already moving.
It was like watching someone flip a switch from “devastatingly hot neighbour” to “man who makes the underground nervous” and I’m not going to analyse why both versions are doing inappropriate things to my insides.
Him: “Gotta go, darlin’. This isn’t finished.”
Me: “The bike?”
Him: that smile that really is a deadly weapon “ Wasn’t talking about the bike.”
Then he grabbed his shirt (moment of silence for the end of the no-shirt era), his leather jacket, and his helmet. The next thing I heard was his Harley roaring to life and then he was gone.
Me
MEGAN HE WAS DOING THE THING
Megan
Which thing?
Me
THE LOOKING THING
Megan
Use your words.
Me
asdfghjkl MY brAIN IS brOKEN
Megan
This is why Brad wants to study you for his thesis.
Just me, standing in a car park, trying to remember how to breathe while simultaneously trying to figure out if “this isn’t finished” means what I think it means.
Mrs Primrose is definitely adding this to her “Suspicious After-Hours Activities” bingo card.
I heard her whisper-shouting to Mrs Everly about “clandestine car park rendezvous” and “potential romance novel research reaching critical phases.”
Current status: Googling “how to tell if you’re being smoothly seduced or having a complete mental breakdown” and “is it normal to be turned on by motorcycle sounds now?” Also “how to explain to your building’s gossip club that you’re not actually conducting a literary study of modern romance tropes. ”
UPDATE (11:58 p.m.): Just heard multiple bikes roll in. Definitely not looking out my window.
UPDATE (11:59 p.m.): Okay, I’m a filthy liar. I’m looking.
UPDATE (12:01 a.m.): Mr Weatherby just texted the building group chat about “suspicious motorcycle activity.” Sir, the only suspicious activity is how you manage to be at your window for literally everything that happens in this building.
UPDATE (12:02 a.m.): Still no sign of him. Not that I’m watching. (I’m watching.)
P.S. To the security cameras in the car park: no, I did not almost walk into a pole while staring at his back muscles. That wassomeone else. Who looks exactly like me. And if Mrs Primrose asks, I was studying the architectural features of the building. For...reasons.
P.P.S. Is it weird that I’m genuinely worried about whatever made him leave like that?
It is, right? We’ve had only two actual interactions.
Three if you count “Need help, sweetheart?” as a conversation.
(I’m counting it. The Wine Club probably has it catalogued as “Initial Suspicious Contact” in whatever conspiracy dossier they’re building about us.) It feels weird to be so invested after so few encounters.
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