Martin seems a bit dazed — fair enough, really; John still feels a little unmoored, himself — but he follows John's lead without objection. He doesn't seem upset as they move to the couch, at least. It doesn't help that John is rather preoccupied with how to handle this with a minimum amount of awkwardness, to say nothing of the nascent worry that with this line crossed, any other he might attempt to draw will just seem painfully arbitrary. Maybe it was stupid of him to think this could be avoided, but simple, straightforward avoidance is all he'd thought to anticipate.

The possibility that it might've been better if he had showed some bloody self-restraint gnaws at him; the idea that Martin is the one who overstepped takes him by surprise, and he meets the stammered apology with a startled blink. "Wh—no, Martin," John hastens to reply, shifting on the cushions to face him and instinctively reaching for his hand. "If anything, I'm the one who—"

He cuts himself off with an exasperated huff. It feels inescapably patronizing to frame what just happened as either one of them taking advantage. Not when Martin had asked, and John had already been on the verge of offering. That doesn't mean it was the most intelligent collective impulse they've ever had, but Christ, Martin certainly doesn't owe him an apology.

"You didn't overstep," he tries again, giving Martin's hand a gentle squeeze. "Okay? You didn't do anything wrong; you were—you were perfect. I just didn't want us to... to get carried away."