It's a side effect he wasn't quite prepared for. Sure, the laying on of hands has certain spiritual connotations, but Beckett's got a look on her face that you don't find within ten miles of a church. He tilts his chin down to look at her. Even in her sturdy boots he's got some height on her.

"Once a week," he instructs, a distant reminder of his earlier promise to rent out his masseuse. "Or, you know, more, if the mood takes you."