Fluorescent green post-its become even more commonplace after what would only be described as The Incident. To anyone else, their desks looked more like an office supply store than usual.
They never talk about the first one, but they see the repercussions throughout their everyday lives, the sneaked glances when the other's not looking, lingering touches on knees and forearms, shy grins tinged with eagerness. The firsts unlocked the floodgates, and let the storm toe the threshold.
Eventually, the notes become more personal, more probing:
"Why don't you talk about your family?"
"How do you make what we see not get to you?"
"What's it like to hold a life in your hands?"
Their lives begin to be dictated through this system, work lives and otherwise. It allows for oddly personal communication, yet with the risk of accidental discovery. For two people so technically gifted, it's unconventional at first glance. Regardless, it just works, and with a high level of success.
It's how she asks him out for the first time, actually.
He doesn't think much of it in the beginning, just another pocket-sized piece of paper with a handy adhesive backing; another of the hundreds of slips they've passed. It's probably a link to a pun compilation or cat video, or actually case-related, or --
Then he reads it, and knows that nothing will ever be the same afterwards. If accepted, it'll be a brink they'll be unable to return from, a story that'll remain only partway written, a journey with no set destination. If denied, it'll form a tentative, awkward schism that'll make things difficult for the both of them.
"Let's go to dinner, somewhere nice, just the two of us?"
And so he responds - adding his characteristic bold handwriting below her delicate half-cursive.
"I'll pick you up at seven."
Crossing the threshold, indeed.
