Page 36 of Mane Rival in Store by Milly Taiden

Including himself.

The next morning, she arrived at Villainette at six-thirty to prep for the post-dawn session.

On the counter of her back office—the counter only accessible through the service door that stayed unlocked between the two stores—sat an edition.

A 1939 Batman #1. Perfectly graded. Sleeved in archival mylar with a certification tag she recognized as Sterling & Mane’s premium tier. No note. No card. No business card with a logo and a phone number.

She picked it up. Turned it under the morning light coming through the back office window. The edition was gorgeous—the cover colors vivid beneath the protective sleeve, the paper carrying the golden warmth of a book that had survived eight decades because someone had loved it enough to keep it safe.

She checked the certification. Graded 8.5. Near-mint. An edition at this grade and rarity was worth⁠—

Six to seven figures, her brain supplied. Six to seven figures, sitting on your counter with no note, because the man next door doesn’t know how to say what this means, so he’s saying it in first editions.

Through the wall, she heard him. Moving through his store in the early quiet, the soft thud of cases being checked, the measured tread of someone who arrived before his staff and walked his territory alone every morning. She’d learned this about him over a week of 7:00 AM sessions: he opened Sterling & Mane how she opened Villainette, with his hands and his attention, making sure every detail held.

She set the Catwoman on her desk. Pressed her fingertips to the mylar sleeve.

Her phone buzzed.

Breezy: It is 6:47 AM. You are staring at a comic book with an expression I have never seen on your face. Do I need to schedule an emergency session?

Lark looked up. Breezy stood in the Villainette doorway with two coffees and her tablet and a raised eyebrow—her surveillance capabilities rivaled a federal agency.

“He left me a Catwoman.”

Breezy’s eyebrow climbed higher. “Graded?”

“Eight-point-five.”

“No note?”

“No note.”

Breezy set down the coffee. Picked up the edition. Examined the certification with the dispassionate assessment of a woman who tracked every line item in Villainette’s inventory and could price an edition in her sleep. She set it back on the desk.

“That’s a seven-thousand-dollar comic.”

“I’m aware.”

“Left on your counter. With no note. Through an unlocked door. At some point between last night and this morning.” Breezy’s mouth did the thing—the twitch, the microexpression that constituted her entire emotional range in professional settings. “Lark.”

“Don’t.”

“He’s courting you in first editions.”

“It’s a professional gesture. A—a colleague gift. For the investigation collaboration.”

“A seven-thousand-dollar colleague gift. With no note. Left in the dark like a love letter.” Breezy picked up her coffee. “I’m adding this to the file.”

“What file?”

“The file I started the day you described his forearms to me for eleven minutes. It has tabs now.” She checked her watch. “6:52. Your session starts in eight minutes. Take the coffee. Leave the denial. You’re running out of room for both.”

Lark took the coffee. Looked at the Catwoman on her desk. Looked at the service door—closed, unlocked, the boundary that had become a bridge six days ago and hadn’t shifted back.

Through the wall, his footsteps stopped. A pause in his morning circuit. Standing on the other side of the plaster, three inches of wall between them, and she imagined him listening the way she was listening—for the sound of the gift landing, for the evidence that the offering had been received.

Lion courtship, and didn’t know where the phrase came from, only that it fit. A gift that said I paid attention, left in the dark, with no demand for acknowledgment.