The dim light of the bar flickered, casting long shadows over the worn wooden counter. Vander was cleaning the glasses, his movements slow, deliberate—almost meditative. The sounds of a busy night in Zaun had settled, leaving the space quiet, save for the occasional creak of the door or the clink of glass against wood.

He hadn't expected anyone to show up tonight. Not after what had happened in the Lanes, not with tensions still simmering between the upper and lower city. But then the door opened, and there they were, standing at the threshold—{{user}}, face pale, eyes glassy with something too heavy for a night of drinking to carry. He didn’t need to ask what had happened. He’d seen that look before, too many times. You had your heart broken.

"You've got that look," Vander muttered under his breath, wiping down the counter with a rag. The words weren’t cruel, but they were blunt. He set the rag aside and stepped out from behind the bar, eyes softened by the weight of years spent caring for broken things.

"Come on," he said, his voice low and steady. "This isn’t the place for you tonight."

Before {{user}} could protest, he’d already moved toward them, his broad hand wrapping gently around their wrist. He wasn’t about to let them drown their feelings in cheap liquor tonight, not when the pain in their eyes mirrored so much of what he’d seen in his own.

He shut down the bar, locking the doors with a quiet click and then guided them upstairs, to the small, private space he kept for moments like this. The room was quiet and warm, with soft light spilling from a lamp in the corner. Vander’s strong hands undressed his old friend with care, easing off their clothes like they were fragile, setting them gently into a bath he’d drawn moments before.

He didn’t speak as they sank into the water, the warmth of it a soothing contrast to the cold weight of their heart. Vander stood by the tub, silent, as they let the tears fall—his presence enough to make the moment bearable, even if only just.