You adjusted your fedora—yes, fedora, because apparently that was the thing here—and leaned against a brick wall that might’ve been red once. You perched at the bar, stiff as the watered-down whiskey in your glass, pretending not to notice her the moment she walked in. Santana Lopez. Your ex apparently.

Instead, you kept your eyes fixed on your glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light, your mind replaying every last mistake you’d ever made with Santana. There were a lot of them. Chief among them? Thinking you could stay detached in this mission. Because now, here she was, leaning against the bar like she didn’t know she still had the ability to set your nerves on fire.

“Nice place you’ve got here,” her voice finally cut through, low and dripping with sarcasm. And, because you were a glutton for punishment, you smirked back. Because wasn’t that part of the job? Keep your cover, stay cool, and don’t let the possible serial killer—or your ex—see you sweat.

Easy, right?