The toast of choice seems to sit well with Miguel, despite whatever was haunting him. He exhales to relax himself, soundless but visible in the way his shoulders slackened.

“Siempre puedo contar en tener trabajo por hacer.” he adds, with a little rise of his glass. “Salud.”

(( * I can always count on having work left to do. Cheers. ))

He does take his sip, after seeing Dan drink with nothing afoul happening. He notices that Dan served himself quite a lot. There’s a wrinkle between his brows at tasting the drink itself, the slight discomfort of something strong hitting the attuned taste and smell. Nothing happens. That seems to be when whatever fear was nibbling at his base stem settles himself, and he can try to enjoy what he agreed to.

He takes another mouthful, closing his eyes. The taste hits him more than the effect of the alcohol.