Beckett slowly yields under the kneading, her body rocking and swaying with the rhythm his palms and fingers set along taut muscle and protruding bone. Her arms fall to rest on the chair's leather-clad ones, hands occasionally gripping the corner when he finds a particularly tender spot to rub.

"I don't know," she wavers, her voice very quiet as she breathes, in and out and easy. "Standard seems to be working out pretty well at the moment."