Lark
SIX
“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?”
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.”
Breezy blinked. Processed. “His hair moved.”
“Upward. At the temples. While he was looking at her.”
Breezy pulled out her tablet and typed. “I’m adding ‘investigate competitor’s hair anomaly’ to the operational notes. Under the subheading ‘unexplained phenomena.’ This is my life now.”
Sybil slid off the stool. “I’ll be back tomorrow.
I want to see the competing window displays in natural light.
” She stopped at the door, backlit by the SoHo afternoon.
“And, Lark? A man who writes letters he doesn’t send, defends you to his own customers, and changes his window display in your honor is not a rival.
He’s a man who doesn’t know how to say what he means. So he’s curating it instead.”
The door closed. The brass bell chimed.
Lark stood in the middle of her store and stared through the glass at the competing window display.
The Catwoman edition glowed under gallery lighting.
Behind it, barely visible through the glass and the cases and the careful arrangement, Rune Sterling sat at his counter with his back to her, perfectly still, perfectly composed.
She opened the group chat.
Lark: This is NOT a thing.
Sybil: I haven’t said a word.
Breezy: 3:00 PM—Existential crisis re: lion man. 3:15 PM—Resume normal operations. I’ve updated the calendar.
Lark: HE’S NOT A LION MAN. And stop calling him that.
Breezy: His hair disagrees.
Lark pocketed her phone. Through the wall, the Bach played on—softer now, less combative. Not a counterattack. A conversation.
She left her playlist where it was.
The two sounds met in the wall and made their strange, accidental music, and the tourists outside recorded it, and the internet watched, and Lark told herself this was a rivalry.
She told herself twice, the way she had to now.
It didn’t stick.