It was an impulse; he often chases those, in situations like this, without giving too much thought to the implications. Which isn't to say he's careless, more that his chief concern is whether it'll wind Martin up or not. Anything beyond that is secondary, and often better disregarded — the last thing either of them need is for him to start overthinking.

But some implications can't be shunted aside so casually, and it isn't until Martin responds well that John appreciates that he could have responded badly. Not that he should have, or even that it was likely — Martin has never begrudged him these little accidents before, and not every unvoiced sentiment feels like a secret — but that the press of his cheek and the ready rejoinder are not things John should take for granted. That they are the result of far more than just a willingness to play along.

He can't take them for granted, and he can't bear to show his appreciation by way of the light torments he's subjected Martin to so far. So he draws back, meeting Martin's gaze for a breathless beat. The hand that was fisted in his hair relaxes, the other lifts to frame his face, cradling him as if he is some unbearably precious object. "Martin..." he starts, his gaze darting between Martin's eyes as he struggles to translate his swell of emotions into words, to assemble a sentence that might adequately convey how loved, how safe Martin makes him feel, and how much John wants to give him.

And then he loses patience, both with himself and with the whole bloody concept of speech, and abandons it all in favor of dipping his head to kiss him, deep and almost desperate. He kisses him until he has to pull back for air, and then he grasps a little clumsily for Martin's hand and draws it up, depositing it on his own shoulder in implicit invitation, underscored with a whispered, "Please."