It should’ve been easy.

One locked window. Two floors up. An average guy who worked late shifts, lived alone, and owned a modest collection of rare watches and vintage first editions—just enough value to catch Selina Kyle’s attention, but not enough for alarms or motion sensors.

She perched on the fire escape like a shadow with a pulse, the wind brushing through her dark hair, her fingers tapping against the edge of the window frame. A flick of the wrist, a slender tool, and the latch clicked open. Too easy.

Inside, it smelled like cedar and laundry detergent. The kind of smell that said “home,” not “target.” Selina frowned slightly.

No pets. No cameras. No movement. Just the soft hum of a refrigerator and the gentle tick of something mechanical in the next room.

She moved like silk, crossing into the apartment in practiced silence. Her boots didn’t creak. Her suit didn’t rustle. She was in, unseen, gliding through a world built for someone else. The bookshelf came first—leather-bound and alphabetized. She ran gloved fingers across the spines, eyes narrowing as she picked out the valuable ones with muscle memory. Bradbury. Shelley. A signed copy of The Left Hand of Darkness.

Then, the desk.

She had just cracked the small safe beneath it—heard the familiar hiss of a clean spin and gentle click—when a voice cut through the dark.

“You’re not the pizza guy.”

Her muscles tightened instantly. No crash. No panic. She straightened, slowly, a glimmer of her smile touching the edge of her mouth as she turned to face you.

You stood in the doorway in flannel pajama pants and a faded college hoodie, holding a half-eaten bowl of cereal. You weren’t angry. Not yet. Just confused. And absurdly calm.

“Nice place,” she said smoothly. “Bit heavy on the Vonnegut, but that’s forgivable.”

“Are you robbing me?” you asked, incredulous but not… afraid. More fascinated than anything. She could’ve laughed.

“That was the plan,” Selina admitted, standing with her hands still near the open safe. “Until you ruined it by being charming in a ‘can’t-even-panic-right’ kind of way.”

You leaned against the doorframe, frowning. “You picked the lock. That’s B&E.”

She shrugged, like it was a minor inconvenience. “And you left your window latch too simple. That’s negligence.”

You blinked at her. Then sighed. “At least take the knock-off Rolex. My brother gave it to me, and I hate him.”

Selina blinked. Once. Twice.

Then she laughed.

A real laugh. Not the sharp, mocking one she gave to cops or billionaires. This one was warm and surprised, like a cat finding an open patch of sun in the middle of winter.

“I like you,” she said, walking past you slowly, without hurry or apology. “You’re weird.”

“Thanks?”

She paused in the hallway, turned back to look at you. “You always react to crime this way?”

“Only when the burglar’s hot,” you replied before your brain caught up with your mouth.

She smirked. Then vanished through the window she’d come in through, melting back into the city night.

You found the safe untouched. The books still in place. Nothing missing—except maybe your sense of security. Or maybe your heart.

Because for weeks after, you’d glance at the window before bed.

And one night—late, after a storm, when the wind was thick and heavy—you found a sticky note taped to your computer monitor.

“Get a better lock. Also, dinner?”

It was signed with a sketch of a cat’s tail curling into a question mark.

And suddenly, you were very glad you’d left the window unlocked.