Page 18 of Mane Rival in Store

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LARK

Lark pulled back from the glass gap. Her pulse thumped in a rhythm that had nothing to do with the playlist.

“It’s a competitive move. That’s all.”

“Competitive moves don’t feature Catwoman. Catwoman is a love letter.” Sybil returned to the beauty bar. “Has he sent you anything? Emails? Notes?”

“No.” Lark paused. “He wrote me a letter.”

Sybil’s matcha stopped. “A letter.”

“About the noise. Formal. His second-in-command mentioned it when I bumped into him getting coffee. Said Rune wrote it, revised it three times, printed it on letterhead, and then didn’t send it.”

“He wrote you a noise complaint, revised it three times, and didn’t send it.”

“On monogrammed stationery, apparently.”

Sybil set down her matcha. Folded her hands. Looked at Lark with the expression of a woman delivering a verdict she’d reached several days ago and was only now sharing out of politeness.

“Lark.”

“Don’t.”

“He wrote you a letter on monogrammed stationery. He revised it three times. He didn’t send it because sending it would require seeing you, and seeing you short-circuits him. Then he defended you to his own customer. Then he changed his window display.” She paused. “He’s proposing.”

“He is not proposing. He’s being a decent neighbor with excellent taste in villain editions.”

“Same energy.” Sybil sipped her matcha. “Different stationery.”

Through the glass, movement caught her eye—Rune, crossing his store floor to the new villain display. He adjusted the Catwoman edition by a fraction. Stepped back. Studied the result. His profile was sharp under the gallery lighting, face taut with focus, his hair catching the warm display light in a way that turned it molten.

He glanced toward the gap. Caught her watching.

She didn’t look away. Neither did he.

Three seconds. Four. Through the glass, she saw his hand lift—an involuntary motion, quickly aborted—and smooth down the hair at his temple.

He turned. Walked to the back of his store with measured strides, retreating from an engagement he hadn’t prepared for.

Lark pulled back from the gap. Her cheeks were warm. The leather jacket ran too hot.

“What was that?” Sybil’s voice was soft. Delighted.

“A staring contest. We’re neighbors. Neighbors stare.”

“Neighbors don’t blush.”

“It’s the neon.”

“The neon excuse is aging poorly, Lark.”

Lark’s phone buzzed. A notification from Instagram: the viral video had crossed five hundred thousand views. The comments section had turned into a debate about which store was better, with a vocal contingent arguing the mashup proved the stores should collaborate. Someone had created a fan account called @SoHoComicWars and it already had three thousand followers.

Breezy emerged from the back office. “The video is at half a million. Two media outlets have requested comment. I’ve drafted a press response for your review.” She paused at the beauty bar, registering Sybil’s expression, Lark’s flushed cheeks, and the charged silence. “What did I miss?”

“Lark had a staring contest with the neighbor.” Sybil inspected Revenge Red on the back of her hand. “His hair moved.”