It was right about now that HR noticed that he could find a very clear pattern in Ravinski's behavior when exposed to certain gestures.
He fancied himself a field psychologist all of a sudden, when all he had to do was loosen his collar a little bit, or click his tongue a certain way, or sigh a certain way as he called him "Dear", and the director would be reduced to silence; merely a pair of eyes peeking out over shakily steepled fingers, locked on the older man's collar bone, and the slightest shiver of labored breath. Collar bone. That was really it. Not neck or chest, but collar bone. Huh.
"Up here, Ravinski," he would often have to purr.