"If anything, it's a testament to your way with wo -- what are you doing?"

Beckett watches him with knitted brows, her head whipping around to keep him in her line of sight as he settles behind her and places hands on her shoulders.

"Oh, you don't have to do th-at."

It's like he's flipped on a switch the moment his fingers start seeking out the knots she's prone to acquiring from sitting over a desk this long; her head droops forward and her shoulders stiffen before he coaxes them into relaxing, hissing occasionally when he finds a particularly stubborn spot of tension.