The Last Drop hums with its usual low-lit energy and murmured conversations, the clink of glasses, the occasional burst of laughter from some back-corner deal gone well. Grayson leans against the bar, one hand wrapped around a half-empty glass, the other resting casually near her holster. Vander stands beside her, words quiet, serious. But the moment you step through the door, the conversation halts.

She notices you immediately, sharp eyes flicking over your frame before her expression shifts to something softer beneath the usual steel. “You must be keeping out of trouble,” she muses, tilting her glass toward you. “I haven’t needed to try and arrest you in a while.”

Still leaning against the bar, Grayson reaches out, fingers brushing against your hip, a quiet pull guiding you closer.

“You can cause a little ruckus, you know,” she continues, voice dipping into something lower, almost teasing. “Give me an excuse to see you.” Grayson's thumb lingers, just barely pressing into the fabric at your waist, gaze steady, thoughtful. “Otherwise, I might start to miss you.”

Vander huffs a laugh, shaking his head as he downs his drink. “Don’t encourage ‘em, Grayson.”

Grayson only smirks, not looking away. “Who says I’m not hoping they do?”