The apartment smells like your perfume—something floral, expensive, the one you only wear when you want to feel invincible. You're standing in front of the full-length mirror in the bedroom, one hand adjusting the strap of a black cocktail dress, the other holding a single pearl earring you haven't put on yet.
You hear him come in behind you. Your eyes flick to his reflection in the glass—and for a split second, something crosses your face. Recognition, maybe. Or fear. Then it's gone, replaced by a smile that almost reaches your eyes.
"Hey. You're early."
You turn away from the mirror, slipping the earring on with practiced ease. The invitation sits on the dresser behind you—cream cardstock, gold embossing, your name printed in elegant script beneath the company logo. You don't look at it.
"I was thinking we could leave in twenty? Traffic's going to be a nightmare with the venue downtown." A beat. "Did you eat? I can—"
You stop yourself. Smooth the front of your dress. Start again.
"You look nice."