Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
ELENA
We do get brunch.
At the Seinfeld restaurant.
The actual one, with the neon sign and those old fashioned booths.
The laminated menus that haven’t changed since 1993.
Colt laughs when I admit I’ve always wanted to come here but never had the nerve to drag a date who wasn’t already a sitcom nerd.
“I’m honored to be your extremely jacked Seinfeld date,” he says, sliding into the booth across from me.
I pretend not to notice the older couple at the next table giving us a curious once-over.
Probably trying to figure out how a woman who looks 39 is sitting across from a man who looks like he was carved by an NFL sculptor.
I don’t care.
I’m glowing. Not to mention starving.
Colt flips open the menu like he already knows it by heart.
“So,” he says, “which character is the best?”
I narrow my eyes. “You have to answer first.”
“Nope.” He shakes his head. “I’m not falling for that trap. You go.”
“Elaine,” I say immediately. “I mean, come on. Elena, Elaine…”
“Wow,” he says, leaning back. “Zero hesitation.”
“She’s iconic. Chaotic. Confident. Never apologizes for being herself. Great hair. Also? She can dance.”
He puts a hand to his heart. “Dancing is important to you?”
I sip my coffee. “I like a man who doesn’t take himself too seriously.”
He hums, staring at me with this look that’s becoming something more than just dangerous.
He seems like he’s memorizing everything I say.
“And your answer?” I ask, pretending not to notice the way his eyes keep drifting to my lips.
“Kramer.”
I actually choke.
“Kramer?” I gasp. “Seriously?”
“Oh yeah.” He grins. “He’s weird. Creative. Loyal. Always cooking up something wild. Always shows up for his friends when it counts. And he’s a little unhinged, which I appreciate.”
“That’s your aspiration?” I tease. “To be a little unhinged?”
“Only for you,” he shoots back, and the way he says it—quiet, sincere—makes heat curl low in my stomach.
Our waiter arrives and we order.
Colt gets two meals, obviously, because he’s a human furnace.
I get one. He gives me a look.
“What?” I ask.
“You’re gonna need more than that for what we did this morning.”
I turn bright red. “Colt!”
“What? Nutrition is important,” he says, but he’s smirking like the devil.
I kick him under the table.
He catches my ankle between his calves and holds it there.
My breath stutters.
A ridiculous amount of electricity zips down my legs.
He doesn’t let go.
“I could sit here all day,” he murmurs, voice dropping into a register that should not be allowed in public. “Just like this.”
“Colt,” I whisper, “stop.”
“Why?” he asks, eyes steady and impossibly sincere. “You asked me to be your boyfriend ten minutes after we—”
“Shhh!” I hiss.
He just grins wider.
The waiter returns and he finally releases my ankle.
I feel like I’m in uncharted waters now, but I’m warmer and more alive than I’ve ever been.
I take a sip of coffee, needing something—anything—to ground me.
“So what took you so long to come around?” Colt asks casually, but his eyes are searching.
“Me?” I raise my brows. “You were the one who wasn’t texting me back.”
He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “I thought you were done with me after our last session.”
I laugh—a soft, incredulous sound. “Not in the slightest.”
He grins a little, but his eyes stay serious.
“So why didn’t you reach out? You were the one who suggested casual in the first place.”
A knot forms in my stomach.
Because this part—the truth—still stings.
“Because I’m worried, Colt,” I say quietly. “What if you do decide you want kids one day? I don’t want to take that away from you.”
His face softens fully.
There’s no evidence of jokes or cocky smiles.
“You need to stop worrying,” he says gently. “Just live life for today.”
“That’s easy for you to say.”
“No, it’s not.” His voice is firm now, but tender. “I can’t imagine what it was like to find out, with your ex of all people, that you couldn’t have kids. And then have him blame you.”
His jaw clenches. “Fuck that guy.”
I swallow hard.
“You’re with me now,” he continues, leaning forward, elbows on the table. “And I don’t want you because you’re some baby factory for hypothetical future offspring.” He shakes his head. “I want you because you’re you. Capeesh?”
The phrase hits me in the chest with surprising force.
“You don’t even understand what this means to me,” I whisper.
He smiles and reaches across the table to brush his thumb over my knuckles.
“Then help me understand,” he murmurs. “Let me be someone who gets to show up for you.”
My throat tightens again, but this time it’s for a good reason.
I squeeze his hand back.
We sit in silence for a moment, like the whole city narrowed down to this tiny diner booth.
Then when our food arrives, Colt’s mood lightens instantly. He stares at his plate with reverence, like it’s holy.
“Told you you needed to eat more,” he says smugly, cutting into his pancake stack like a man who earned it.
“Do not try to nutrition-coach me during brunch,” I warn.
“Sorry.” He chews. “Reflex.”
I steal a fry off his second plate.
He gasps dramatically. “You’re stealing from a growing athlete?”
“You’re twenty-seven, not twelve.”
He grins. “Still growing. In all the right places.”
I kick him under the table again.
He traps my ankle again.
“Colt!”
“What?” he says innocently. “You started it.”
We eat, and it’s so laid back, and casual.
At one point, he tries to reenact Kramer sliding into Jerry’s apartment.
The waiter sees him and I want to die.
Colt, on the other hand, is delighted.
But the softness between us never fades.
At the end of the meal, when the bill arrives, he reaches for it without hesitation.
“We’re official,” he says, shrugging. “Boyfriend privilege.”
I roll my eyes but I’m smiling.
“Fine,” I say. “But next time? I’m paying.”
“Oh, next time?” he teases. “Damn. Already planning our second date?”
“Shut up.”
He stands, comes around the booth, offers me his hand.
And when I take it, his fingers slide between mine like they belong there.