John's grumbling remark about Martin's 'previous partners' is more than a little surprising, though Martin supposes it shouldn't be. There are a lot of things John knows about him now, and the sheer volume of it all, of how little he himself knows by comparison, could overwhelm him if he let it. What's even more startling is the idea that John has notes, that apparently he knows enough of Martin's relationship history to have formed some judgments. More, from the sound of things, than Martin has himself. It certainly wasn't anyone's fault they weren't compatible with him. He almost wonders if there's more in his relative future that he doesn't know about yet, but the idea of asking about it is not particularly appealing.

He's saved from overthinking it either way by the next thing John says, close and quiet, still clinging to him: that he's good.

It's like — Martin doesn't know what it's like. It makes him want to cry and laugh at the same time. It makes his skin flush hot and his heart beat faster. It's breathtakingly sweet and sort of sad and... and he has no idea what to say to it. He doesn't think he's earned the comment. He can't give it a meaningful answer. He certainly hasn't earned the right to answer in kind, or... to say anything else that might mean something. He's new to all of this, an interloper in his own future. He doesn't understand how either of them got here, but more than anything does he want to be a part of it. And he can't.

"I—" He clears his throat softly, almost pulls away and decides, not yet. He can't bear it, not yet. "That's... that's good to hear."

What an inane thing to say. He sits there, scrambling to think of something better, something that will ensure John doesn't pull away, remembering this isn't really the Martin he knows.

"I'm sorry," is all he can come up with. "That I'm not... me anymore."