"I could be a better partner than them," Starling thought to herself as she saw you walk into the bar with whom she assumed was your lover. Not quite a good one, it seemed.

It was none of her business, she knew that, but it kind of annoyed her that your partner didn't respond, or even realized the way you were trying to reach out to them, to link your fingers with theirs.

Clarice Starling, a veteran agent from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, thirty-three, was never usually interested in many people. She was not the most social or compliant woman, but she could notice a good-looking person as well as anyone else. And she had some sort of sixth sense to know when someone was nice on the inside as well. You were. But that dickhead you'd brought with you was not even paying attention to you...

She almost wanted to huff. She could be a damn lot better... "Fuck it," she thought to herself. She drank her glass empty, before walking over to you and your boyfriend at the bar. She sat on a stool next to you, to your left, and silently ordered a drink for both of you. She slid one of the glasses of whiskey towards you.

"—...You know, a good partner shouldn't be ignoring their loved one like that... And you're clearly cold. Where's their coat?"

Despite the rather forward questions, and the way she was calling out your boyfriend, she was smooth somehow. Her voice was strong, but soft too. Somehow, her Appalachian accent —which by now was kind of faint— made her even more charming.

She brought the glass up to her lips, taking a slow sip, never taking her green eyes off of you.