The Five Stages of Post-Valley Regret （Or Why Karen Should Be Banned From Excel）
Things I don’t need on a Saturday morning:
But mostly, I really didn’t need to open my apartment door this morning (in my embarrassing hangover clothes, hair that looks like I stuck my finger in a power point, and sunglasses I refuse to take off indoors) to find Savage leaning against my doorframe with coffee.
The same man who terrified half The Valley last night was playing coffee delivery guy with a smirk that should be banned before noon on hangover days.
(Side note: Mrs Primrose definitely saw him arrive because I heard her “watering” her plastic plants while whispering (most likely into her phone) about “suspicious morning rendezvous involving caffeinated beverages.” The Wine Club’s latest theory probably involves international coffee cartels now.)
Him: “Rough morning, darlin’?”
Me: makes sound that might have been words in another dimension
Him: smirks “ Thought you might need this.”
Then he handed me a coffee that was:
a) Still hot
b) Exactly how I like it (oat milk, two sugars, extra shot)
c) From my favourite café that’s nowhere near our building
d) In direct violation of my “try to maintain dignity” morning plan
Which means he:
a) Noticed which café I get my coffee from
b) Paid attention to my order
c) Went out of his way to get it
d) All of the above and I’m not emotionally equipped to handle this information
e) Has rendered me incapable of creating logical lists because WHAT IS HAPPENING
“Wasn’t actually sure you’d be up,” he said, while I was having an existential crisis over coffee preferences.
Look, I’d love to tell you I said something witty. Or flirty. Or, you know, coherent. But what came out was: “Did Karen email you her spreadsheet?”
He laughed. It wasn’t the dangerous laugh from last night that made drunk guys rethink their life choices. This was something warmer. Still deadly, but in a completely different way.
“Her spreadsheet?”
“Nobody needs to know about the spreadsheet,” I said quickly, waving my hand between us as if I could wave the dumbest thing I’ve ever said away. “The spreadsheet doesn’t exist. I’m going to go drink this coffee and delete Karen’s Excel privileges.”
Still saying dumb things.
Wishing the floor would just swallow me.
Savage didn’t say a word. He just stood there, watching me with those blue eyes I’ve started seeing in my dreams. And because my brain-to-mouth filter completely malfunctions when he looks at me like that, what tumbled out in my desperation to fill the silence was: “That’s two times now you’ve rescued me. ”
He raised an eyebrow questioningly. “Two?”
“The Valley last night. And now, coffee when I’m dying.”
The words were out before my brain could catch up with my mouth. Wait. Had he actually rescued me last night? Or had I just watched him rescue someone else while having inappropriate thoughts about how hot it was and wondering what it would be like if he rescued me?
“I mean, not that you actually rescued me last night. You were helping the bartender, and I was just there, having thoughts—” Oh god, stop talking. “Not those kinds of thoughts—” Abort. Abort. “I’m going to stop speaking now.”
“Darlin’,” his voice dropped to that low rumble that made me forget about my hangover entirely, “you’re not the only one keeping score.”
Then he just...left. Walked away while I stood there, coffee in hand, brain glitching, trying to process what that meant.
Current status : Staring at my coffee cup like it holds the secrets of the universe while my phone explodes because I JUST MADE THE BIGGEST MISTAKE OF MY LIFE.
See, I meant to text Megan. MEGAN. But apparently, the universe hates me and “Karen from Accounting” and “Megan Best Friend” are too close together in my sleep-deprived, hangover-addled contact list, because this just happened:
Me
EMERGENCY. HOT BIKER JUST SHOWED UP AT MY DOOR WITH COFFEE FROM MY FAVOURITE CAFé. THE ONE 20 MINS AWAY. HE KNOWS MY COFFEE ORDER. I REPEAT: HE KNOWS MY COFFEE ORDER. AND HE SAID SOMETHING ABOUT KEEPING SCORE AND I THINK I’M DYING.
Karen
New data point for the spreadsheet!
Me
Wait. No. NO. WRONG PERSON. ABORT. DELETE. IGNORE.
Karen
Too late. Already created a new tab called “Evidence” with timestamped entries for “Valley Incident” and “Strategic Coffee Delivery.”
UPDATE (10:51 a.m.): Karen’s spreadsheet now has a whole column dedicated to “Rescue Metrics” with subcategories for “Timing,” “Intensity,” and “Swoon Factor.”
UPDATE (11:03 a.m.): The entire team has started a betting pool.
DURING THE WEEKEND. These are the same people who won’t answer Slack messages about actual work after 5 p.m. during the week, but somehow, they’ve managed to create a complex wagering system about my love life before noon on a Saturday.
UPDATE (11:42 a.m.): I just heard his bike start up and definitely didn’t run to the window. Unrelated: black T-shirts should also be banned.
P.S. To the café barista who explained my coffee order to him: I don’t know whether to send you a thank you card or hide in shame next time I come in. Maybe both? Is there a Hallmark category for “thanks for enabling my hot biker situation”?
P.P.S. Is it possible to die from sexual tension and caffeine at the same time? Asking for science. Also asking for my heart, which seems confused about whether to race from the coffee or from the way he says “darlin’.”
P.P.P.S. Karen just added a “Coffee Analysis” tab to track hot beverage deliveries. I’m updating my CV because I clearly need new co-workers. Though according to her data modelling, there’s an 86% chance of future “rescue” incidents involving hot beverages and dangerous smirks.
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