Only by the grace of her technically being his superior within the company is she allowed to touch him without reprimand. The moment her hand lit upon his chest she would have felt the resistance, the desire to withdraw from her, perhaps the very odd feeling that despite the solidness of his physical form, something within him did retreat. There exists as well a cold fog in his close proximity; a layer of something that isn't him, but also is. It is in his nature to attack, to lash out, to drive down, down, down simply because he can. His tongue holds fast behind the pearls of his teeth, but perhaps for a moment, as she pulls her hand back out of that fog and retreats toward the exit, she hears a faint trail of whispers nagging behind her ears, feels the cool breath of a windless breeze caress an errant hair against her cheek.
Mihai is alone, but he is also not alone.
Though his voice rises in retort as she moves away, he yet does not turn to look at her. He remains forward facing, leaned over his work. "Martyrdom is not an attractive look for you, Miss Bailey," he says, tone even and smooth. "Weep for yourself if you must. I have no need for your misguided tears."
He clears his throat, his pen pausing in its note making, and flips over a page in one of his books.