Episode Seven
1164 Words
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**Chapter 7: The Post-It War**
It started with tea.
Day 31. 7:03 a.m. Claire walked into her office. Her office was the second suite of the penthouse, all windows and empty bookshelves and a desk she’d covered in sticky notes that said things like *DEADLINE* and *DON’T ANSWER THAT EMAIL DRUNK*.
On her laptop keyboard was a single yellow post-it note.
Daniel’s handwriting. All caps. All precise. Like he’d used the ruler.
*YOUR TURN TO MAKE TEA. SEE CLAUSE 4, SUBSECTION C.*
There was no Clause 4, Subsection C. She checked. Twice.
She made tea anyway.
Not because he told her to. Because she wanted to. And because the thought of him waiting for it, checking his watch at 7:05, made her feel something warm and irritating behind her ribs.
She left the mug on his desk. No post-it. Just the tea. Chamomile. The way he liked it.
His office door was open. He was on a call. He saw her. He didn’t stop talking. But his eyes did a thing. A flicker. A *noted*.
---
At 10:22 a.m., she found another post-it.
This one was stuck to her phone.
*TEA RECEIVED. ACCEPTABLE. SEE CLAUSE 4, SUBSECTION D: GRATITUDE IS MANDATORY.*
Claire snorted. Wrote back on a pink post-it:
*COUNTER-OFFER: MAKE YOUR OWN TEA. SEE CLAUSE I DO WHAT I WANT.*
She stuck it to his computer monitor while he was in the bathroom.
---
At 11:47 a.m., her response was on her chair.
*NOTED. REBUTTAL: I MADE IT ANYWAY. IT’S ON YOUR DESK. YOU’RE WELCOME. SEE CLAUSE 6: I AM RIGHT.*
The tea was there. Still hot. He’d used her favorite mug. The one that said *I SURVIVED ANOTHER MEETING THAT SHOULD HAVE BEEN AN EMAIL*.
She drank it.
---
By 3:00 p.m., the penthouse was a war zone.
Post-its were everywhere.
On the fridge: *YOUR SUDOKU BOOK IS IN MY SUITE. HOSTAGE NEGOTIATIONS OPEN AT 5.*
On the microwave: *YOU MICROWAVED FISH. THIS IS A VIOLATION OF THE GENEVA CONVENTION.*
On the bathroom mirror: *YOU USED MY SHAMPOO. IT SMELLS LIKE LEMONS. THIS IS NOTED.*
On his pillow: *I DID NOT USE YOUR SHAMPOO. I USED YOUR CONDITIONER. CHECKMATE.*
Daniel found that one at 11:00 p.m. He stood in the doorway of her office, holding it between two fingers like it was evidence.
“You went in my bathroom.”
“You went in my suite for Sudoku.”
“I was retrieving my property.”
“I was conducting a wellness check on your hair. It was tragic.”
He stepped inside. Didn’t sit. He never sat in her office. Like it was foreign territory.
“Your handwriting is worse when you’re angry,” he said, holding up the post-it.
“Your handwriting is always worse. You write like a warrant.”
He looked at her desk. It was covered in paper. Client proposals. Red pen marks. A cold cup of tea. And post-its. Dozens of them. Most from him.
“You kept them,” he said.
Claire didn’t look up from her laptop. “Recycling is full.”
“Claire.”
“What.”
He set the post-it down. Picked up a blank one from her desk. Wrote something. Stuck it to her screen, right at eye level.
She read it.
*I don’t hate your conditioner.*
It wasn’t funny. It wasn’t a joke. It was small. And honest. And it did something stupid to her chest.
She pulled it off the screen. Stuck it to the bottom of her laptop. Where she’d see it every time she opened it.
“Noted,” she said.
He didn’t leave. He stood there while she typed. For five minutes. Ten.
“Do you need something,” she said, not looking at him.
“Yes.”
“What.”
“I don’t know.”
That made her look up.
Daniel Hart never didn’t know. Daniel Hart had contingency plans for his contingency plans.
He was standing in her office at 11:08 p.m. in a t-shirt and sweatpants, with a hole in the collar, and he looked… lost.
“Say it,” Claire said. Quiet. “Clause 3. We tell the truth.”
He exhaled. Ran a hand through his hair. It was the most human gesture she’d ever seen him make.
“I like the post-its,” he said. “I like that you answer. I like that you’re here. I like that my house doesn’t feel like a mausoleum anymore.”
Claire’s throat closed.
“And I don’t know what to do with that,” he finished. “Because there’s no protocol. And we have 59 days left. And I’m bad at this.”
Claire stood up. Slowly. Her chair rolled back.
She walked around the desk. Stopped two feet from him. The same distance as the laundry room. The same distance as the kitchen at 2 a.m.
“Okay,” she said.
“Okay what.”
“Okay, you’re bad at this. Me too. We can be bad at it together.”
He looked at her. Really looked. No spreadsheet. No CEO. Just Daniel.
“Clause 2,” he said. “No touching.”
“I’m not touching you,” Claire said.
“You’re thinking about it.”
“So are you.”
A beat. Two.
Daniel reached out. Not to her face. Not to her hand. He picked up a post-it from her desk. A blank one.
He wrote three words.
Stuck it to her shirt. Right over her heart.
Claire looked down.
*I’m trying.*
It was the least composed thing he’d ever written. The letters weren’t even straight.
She took a post-it. Wrote three words.
Stuck it to his shirt. Right over his heart.
*Me too.*
They stood there. Two idiots with post-its on their chests and 59 days left on a contract they were both too stubborn to admit was already void.
The air was thick. Not with anger. With everything else.
Daniel’s eyes dropped to her mouth. Then back up. Like he was asking permission.
Claire’s heart was beating in her ears.
“Clause 4,” she said. Her voice was not steady. “New subsection. E.”
“What does it say.”
“No kissing,” she said. “Until we can admit why we want to.”
Daniel closed his eyes. Like he was in pain. “That’s… not helpful.”
“It’s honest.”
He opened his eyes. Nodded. Once. “Noted.”
He stepped back. Picked up the *I don’t hate your conditioner* post-it from her laptop. Put it in his pocket.
“For the record,” he said, at the door. “Your shampoo does smell like lemons. It’s… not terrible.”
He left.
Claire stood in her office for ten minutes. Then she peeled the *Me too* post-it off her shirt and stuck it to her mirror. Next to the one that said *YOU USED MY SHAMPOO*.
She had 59 days.
She was going to need all of them.
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- Writer
