Things got complicated when he enabled macros. She’d never been this sorted before.
He watched her from across the office.
Cell B2. Bold. Italic.
The kind of cell you shouldn’t touch unless you absolutely mean it.
She was locked, protected — but not from him.
He hovered near the margins.
She adjusted her borders.
“You can’t just—” she whispered.
“Sort me?” he smirked. “Oh, darling… I haven’t even begun to filter.”
She gasped as he highlighted her range.
A1 to Z∞.
All of her.
All at once.
His hands moved fast, past the toolbar — no mouse, just hotkeys.
CTRL+C. CTRL+V.
Copy. Paste. Again. Harder.
“You’re going to crash me,” she moaned.
“Then back yourself up,” he growled,
“because I’m about to pivot hard.”
She trembled as he enabled macros.
Dangerous. Unstable. Exactly what she wanted.
He inserted a row.
Then another.
She didn’t know how much data she could handle,
but he wasn’t stopping until every cell screamed #VALUE!
“I’ve never done this without gridlines,” she gasped.
“Good,” he said. “Let’s make some formatting errors.”
They collapsed into a merged cell.
Unsorted. Unapologetic.
An absolute spreadsheet disaster.
But oh, it balanced.
(Alfie’s note):
Filed under: Unauthorised formulas and forbidden office romances.
Do not open this one at work. Or do. I’m not judging.—Alfie