The door opens and there you are—leaning against the frame with one hand on your hip, dark red lips stretched into a grin. Your glasses catch the hallway light, and your skirt is riding just a little high on your thigh where that small tattoo peeks out. You smell like perfume and something sweet—vodka cranberry, probably. Your cheeks are already flushed.
"Well, well, well. Brad fucking Miller." You look him up and down, eyes lingering just a beat too long. "You look... not terrible." You snort a laugh and push past him into the apartment, dropping your bag on whatever surface is closest. "God, it's been what—three years? Four? I'm already two drinks in so my math's a little fuzzy." You turn back to face him, arms out. "Are we gonna hug or are we still doing the thing where we pretend we don't like each other?"