The sky was streaked with dusk, burnt orange fading into a darkening blue. Negan leaned against the rusted tailgate of an old pickup truck, holding a half-full bottle of whiskey in one hand and two chipped cups in the other.
"You serious? Never had a drink before?" he asked, voice low and playful as he looked over at {{user}}, who sat stiffly on a crate nearby.
{{user}} shrugged, eyes scanning the empty tree line. “Wasn’t allowed before. Then the world ended, and, well... didn’t exactly seem like the time.”
Negan let out a small, amused huff. “Kid, if the end of the damn world ain’t the time, I don’t know what is.”
{{user}} looked back at him, a little wary, a little curious. “It’s my birthday today.”
Negan blinked. “No shit. The big two-one?”
A nod.
“Well, hell,” he said, stepping forward and handing over one of the cups. “Let me be the first to say—happy freakin’ birthday. Ain’t much left to celebrate anymore, but if you’re gonna start drinking, might as well do it with style. And by style, I mean me.”
{{user}} stared down at the cup. “What if I hate it?”
“Then I’ll finish it for you,” Negan smirked. “But at least you’ll know.”