Page 112 of My Vigilante Valentine

One particularly enthusiastic reporter swore there were witnesses who’d seen him leap between buildings like Spiderman without the webs, but that was total trash. There were no witnesses unless you counted me. And my description of him would paint a much more attractive picture. Me being obsessed, and all.

“The city’s favorite hero strikes again,” an anchor announced with a bright smile that probably took years of practice to perfect. “Sources say The Blade single-handedly captured the notorious Valentine Villain, bringing an end to the string of tragic murders that have plagued our city.”

“Single-handedly?” Chris muttered, stabbing his pancakes with more force than necessary. “What are we, chopped liver? I’d like to see him crack encrypted phones and run tactical support while also maintaining a professional gaming schedule and my usual hacktivism. It’s not easy.”

I patted his hand consolingly. “There, there. We know the truth. Team Blade forever.”

“And the truth shall remain secret,” Jax added firmly, though I caught the way his lips twitched.

Around us, other diners were discussing the news, too, their excited chatter filling the cozy space with theories and speculation.

A kid at the counter wore a black hoodie that was clearly meant to be a homemade Blade costume, complete with plastic swords crossed on his back and secured with black tape. He kept striking dramatic poses while his parents pretended not to notice.

Jax shifted uncomfortably, pulling his own hood lower. “Maybe we should?—”

“Nope.” I hooked my arm through his, effectively trapping him in the booth. “We’re celebrating. With pancakes. Deal with it.”

He sighed and didn’t reply, but I felt some of the tension leave his shoulders.

Chris snorted into his coffee. “You’ve got him well-trained. Next thing you know, he’ll be helping you decorate for holidays without complaining about the glitter hazard.”

“Never,” Jax deadpanned, but his arm tightened around me slightly.

I pulled out my phone. “Oh, speaking of the holidays. I almost forgot. Have you seen this?”

I held up my screen, making sure the phone was at the perfect angle to show off the fully-funded Kickstarter campaign for The Blade action figures.

Someone—definitely not me and Chris, obviously—had created surprisingly detailed mock-ups, complete with choking-hazard-sized throwing knives and that signature hood. They’d even gotten his broody stance right, which should have required hours of careful observation.

They were set to ship right before Christmas.

Not that I’d know anything about that.

Jax’s eyes went wide, and his pancake-laden fork stopped halfway to his mouth. “What.”

It wasn’t even a question—more like an exhale of pure horror. The kind that made my heart do happy little flips because he was just so adorable when he was mortified.

“It reached the funding goal in, like, two hours,” I continued cheerfully, scrolling through the updates with perhaps too much enthusiasm. “Turns out people really want tiny plastic versions of Slate Harbor’s very own vigilante. Look, they even got your broody stance right! See how the little figure can be posed to have its arms crossed and everything?”

He dropped his fork so he could bury his face in his hands. “This isn’t happening.”

“Oh, it’s definitely happening.” Chris leaned across the table to get a better look, nearly knocking over his coffee in his excitement. “And honestly? It really is a good stance. Very heroic. They really captured your whole...” He gestured vaguely at all of Jax. “Aesthetic.”

“I hate both of you.” His words were muffled by his hands, but the fondness in them was unmistakable.

I scrolled through the campaign details, probably having way too much fun with this. “They’re planning a whole line. Different outfits, weapons... ooh, and a deluxe version with light-up eyes! For those extra dramatic nighttime rescues.”

“And look at these accessories,” Chris added, pointing at the screen. “Interchangeable weapons, including tiny throwing knives.”

“Plus a grappling hook!”

“And a motorcycle!”

“I don’t even have a motorcycle,” he grumbled.

“Don’t forget the display stand shaped like?—“

“You started this, didn’t you?” he cut in, finally emerging from behind his hands to look between us with narrowed eyes. “This has your chaos energy all over it.”

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