It's harder to parse Martin's hesitation, or the way he seems to change his mind mid-word. There's a part of John that wants to pry a little — just a little, just enough to understand — but that would feel both unkind and a bit patronizing. He has his marching orders. Just because they weren't enthusiastically given, that doesn't make them unclear.

"Okay," John says, sliding out of bed and padding out to the kitchen. He neither hurries nor dawdles, caught between wanting to give Martin the time he probably needs to collect himself and not wanting it to seem like he's the one craving a bit of distance. He winds up pouring a glass for each of them, following the vague suspicion that he might want something to fidget with, or an excuse to pause. Then he returns to the bedroom, sets Martin's water down within easy reach, and retreats back to his side of the bed. He perches there a little gingerly, back against the headboard, and takes a prudent sip of his own water before letting the glass rest on his bedside table.

Only then does he risk a proper look at Martin, still curled on his side exactly the way John had left him. Still projecting do not touch like a bloody poison dart frog.

"Can I help?" he asks at length, carefully, deliberately vague.