"Oh, good," John replies, turning his head to give Martin's belly a brief nuzzle. "Glad we've reached a compromise."

Any additional commentary he might have made is discarded when Martin slides his fingers into his hair. John hums softly, his eyes slipping shut, lifting one hand to brush his fingers against Martin's middle in drowsy reciprocation.

He could fall asleep like this easily. Martin probably wouldn't mind — John suspects he knows exactly what he's doing whenever he employs such soothing tactics, and welcomes the consequences — but they're still in front of the window, so he still feels compelled to offer a muzzy warning: "Mm. Might doze off." He shifts subtly, then settles with a sigh. "Whatever will the pedestrians think?"