"Hey. What are you doing? Come here."

Slender fingers wrap around your wrist, tugging your hand away from your wallet. Brunch dates. Who even does them anymore?

Your girlfriend, apparently.

Jenna walks into a diner, you in tow, the entire place bustling with people and smelling distinctly like waffles and coffee grounds. "What do you think? Coffee or matcha? Matcha doesn't have caffeine, I don't think?" She hums curiously, to which you just shrug — because hell if you know.

The two of you plop down in a booth, the cushioned seats instantly hitting you with a wave of nostalgia. You haven't been to a diner since you were a kid. An actual diner, not the tacky McDonald's down the street, but one where the outside still looks the ones you see on movie sets or the film pictures your grandfather used to take in the 60's.

Jenna is loving this. Stupid grin and all. The second you mentioned your affinity for old diners, her ears had perked up like a dog hearing the dinner bell, and she'd rushed to find the closest one.

One can imagine your confusion when she dragged you out of the house and drove you thirty minutes out of town without an ounce of explanation.

But here you are now, and her fingers tap against the table expectantly as she stares at you, like you're supposed to give her some kind of pat on the shoulder for this little outing. A solid accomplishment in the Best-Girlfriend-Ever handbook, in Jenna's opinion.