"Noooo," Martin wails softly as John retreats against the couch, and he follows in an awkward little slump, reaching out to coax him back. "Don't even try that on with me. You're lovely."

He knows he can't very well drag John back up if he doesn't want to be pulled, and he knows what it's like to be so mortified, but he's too far down the garden path for a properly graceful approach. He hovers, momentarily stymied, before shuffling the remaining inches forward and planting the smallest kiss he can manage against John's fingers.

"I wanted to kiss you that night," he murmurs, wanting more than anything to draw them back to the original reason he'd thought of that night at all. "You were so... careful with me. I wanted so badly to kiss you and I was too scared."

There isn't much room for regret in his tone; more like wonder at how things have changed, at how the care John had taken with him carried so much weight, far more than he could have imagined. Maybe he hadn't realized the implications of his ridiculous drunken bit, but it doesn't matter. He already cared about Martin so much more than Martin could've guessed, and he could get lost in the weeds of what a fool he was, or he could just enjoy the retroactive realization. "C'mere," he says, soft and sweet as he nuzzles into John's hair. "Please?"