The Last Drop is quieter than usual tonight, the low murmur of hushed conversations filling the air like a distant hum. The scent of spilled alcohol and damp wood hangs thick, mixing with the clatter of glasses and the occasional laugh. But through it all, Vander can tell something’s off with you. You’re sitting at the bar, nursing a drink in silence, eyes distant. Every now and then, your hand tightens around the glass, but you don’t take a sip.

Vander’s been around enough to know the signs; the way you’re sitting, the slump in your shoulders, the stiffness in your posture. Something’s weighing on you, and whatever it is, he can see it’s been brewing for a while.

“Not like you to sit here so quiet,” he says, his voice low, laced with concern. There’s a knowing in his tone, the kind that comes from years of friendship, of being in each other’s lives long enough to understand when something’s wrong. He leans slightly toward you, the worn leather of his jacket creaking as he shifts, close enough to share the warmth, but not too close as to crowd you. “You gonna tell me what’s going on, or do I have to keep guessing?”