"Sure, why not," Negan's offer receives a crooked, dimpled smile, glass finally running mostly finished. The warm blur of it was starting to set well in, because loathe as he is to admit it, but the tolerance of a thirteen year old body was absolute shit.

A bony ankle is crossed over his knee, and he tosses Negan a contemplative glance. "Yeah. Yeah me too, actually," he agrees. "Not much dinner parties in the apocalypse."