Miguel's throat bulged, a thick, deliberate muscle movement as he took a very concerning gulp of the caramel-scented liquid from the bottle.
Opposite him, Storm did nothing else but sit stiff, observing with a focused terror.
He breathed like his oxygen was running out in bars, measured and desperate; he prayed, with the fervor of a man on the gallows, that Miguel would be pleased with the whiskey.
In fact, Storm's only job in this moment was to stare like a traumatized stray cat. When his gaze felt too lingering, too excessive for a man of Miguel's stature to endure, he would lower his head, neck bared, waiting for Miguel's final judgment. But then, his eyes widened in sheer disbelief at the vibration of the words that hit the air.
"Now, this!… is how you treat a guest, Storm," Miguel praised. His face carried a fleeting sourness, a sharp edge of the alcohol that faded quickly as he dropped the bottle onto the table with a jolly, terrifying grace.
