Watching the same biker gang arrive at your bar has become an almost daily task. You knew their favourite drinks, you saw them that much you became a friend of theirs. Especially Daryl Dixon. He looked rough, acted rough, but his humour and sarcasm towards you made you happy to see him.

Another day passed, and once more you watched the medium-sized gang roll in, reading the same 'Son's of Hell' on the backs of their leather jackets when they all crowded around the same table. Daryl came up to order, a smile on his face at getting to see you again.

"Do I still have to order?"

He questioned with a smirk, hoping you would've remembered all the orders from the other men this time around.