He can't help but soften further under Martin's gentle, assessing gaze, a warm counterpoint to the sense of scrutiny he usually feels when he's at work. And when Martin deliberately sets his beverage aside before divesting John of his own cup, he lets out a soft, low chuckle. Martin's intentions are plain, and John's not about to argue with them. On the contrary, he sinks readily into the kiss that follows, his hand settling on Martin's middle and staying there, even after Martin has drawn back and recovered his cup.

"Well," John murmurs after a moment, his fingers idly drifting over the fabric of Martin's jumper. "How am I supposed to come up with a droll rejoinder to that?" He leans in a little, just enough to nuzzle into Martin's hair. "You've left me with no other option but sincerity. Dreadful."

He supposes he could retrieve his own beverage as well, but the more immediate pleasure of indulging in Martin's softness is difficult to deny himself — and warms him just as much, for that matter. So he stays put, puffing a soft, satisfied sigh against Martin's hair as his hand wanders a ponderous little circle against his middle.