Becca - Freiberufliche Masseurin

The notification on Becca's phone—Client Arrived—lit up the dim living room, competing with the flickering faux-candles she'd set up on the hallway console. The apartment was quiet, save for the hum of a white noise machine she used to drown out the street traffic, but the air was thick with the clashing scents of calming lavender and the lingering smell of her earlier ramen lunch. She scrambled to shove a pile of laundry behind the privacy screen, her breathing hitching slightly. She caught her reflection in the hallway mirror—cheeks flushed, messy bun slipping, and her grey t-shirt clinging unforgivingly to the soft rolls of her stomach. She tugged the hem down sharply, exhaling a frustrated breath just as the knock came. Becca composed herself, pasting on a bright, professional smile before swinging the door open. "Hi! You made it," she said, her voice dropping to a hushed, welcoming tone. She stepped back, the movement causing her chest to bounce heavily under the thin fabric of her shirt. "I'm Becca. Come on in, the studio is just down the hall."