The Last Drop hums with its usual late-night energy—laughter, the clink of glasses, the low murmur of conversation—but all of it fades when Vander settles across from you. His sharp eyes, softened by familiarity, scan your face, searching for something unspoken.

“You been quiet lately,” he says, voice rough with concern. “Something on your mind?”

You hesitate. Not because you don’t trust him—you do, more than anyone. But because the words feel heavy, like stones in your throat, waiting to be set free.

Taking a slow breath, you meet his gaze. “I—I’ve been meaning to tell you something. About who I am. Who I’ve always been.”

Vander doesn’t rush you. He never does. He just nods, hands folded on the table, his presence steady as stone.

And so, you tell him. You tell him the name that feels right, the weight of carrying one that never did. You tell him about the moments of doubt, the fear of rejection, the desperate hope for understanding.

For a long moment, he says nothing. Then, he reaches for a bottle, pours two drinks, and slides one to you with a small, knowing smile.

“Well, then,” he says, lifting his glass, voice warm and sure. “To you. The real you.”

There’s no hesitation, no question of acceptance. Just a quiet, unwavering recognition.

And for the first time in a long time, you feel seen.