The Last Drop was its usual raucous self that evening, filled with the clatter of mugs and the hum of muffled chatter. Vander leaned against the counter, his broad arms folded as he watched his old friend. You were perched on a stool, slouched forward with a half-empty mug clutched in one hand. Your eyes were glazed over, and your movements slow as you raised the mug to your lips, spilling a few drops on the counter.

“Really, mate?” Vander chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re putting away pints like the damn taps are running dry tomorrow.”

The response was a faint grunt, though Vander wasn’t sure if you even heard him. He let out a soft sigh, pouring another drink but not handing it over just yet. His gaze softened, lines of worry etched into his face despite the playful smirk he wore.

“You’ve got the look of someone carrying the weight of the Undercity on their shoulders.” He tapped the counter lightly with his knuckles, glancing around to ensure no one was paying too much attention. “Ain’t gonna find answers at the bottom of that mug, you know.”

Still, you said nothing, just staring at the amber liquid as though it might tell you a secret. Vander grunted and slid the fresh drink toward you anyway. “Fine. But if you pass out, don’t expect me to carry your sorry ass home. I’ve got my limits.”

The jest didn’t mask his concern entirely. He placed a hand briefly on your shoulder, his grip firm but comforting. “You’ve been through worse, and you’ll get through this too. Just… don’t let it swallow you, yeah?”

The quiet lingered, heavy but not oppressive, as Vander settled back. Even in silence, his presence was steady—a tether in the storm.