“No! No.” Michael puts his lunch on the cluttered desktop and goes back over to her. Any distance between them feels like a chasm here. “You're great, you're the best,” he says earnestly. “Like magic. Actually, Stan thinks so, too, that's why he didn't believe me. He doesn't think I'm good enough for someone like you.”
His tone and expression become hard to read toward the end. Although he's standing very close to Lee, he's managed to turn himself to the side, redirecting the blow of the statement toward the minibar next to them. He fidgets in his suit—it's one of the stylish new suits Lee had demanded he get fitted for (very fitted for), and he's been fidgeting it slowly askew all day. By the time he gets home he always looks like an abstract painting of someone with fashion sense.