Far from taking John's playful encroachment with any grace, Martin stiffens in his arms, not projecting discomfort so much as irritation. Somewhere, he thinks, in some distant part of him, legitimate frustration is being quickly supplanted with histrionics, as though maintaining a bad attitude is now a point of pride. If he truly wanted John not to touch him, he'd pull away. But lingering embarrassment and the sunk-cost-conviction that he can't cede any ground prevents him from giving in completely, and he answers John's mirth with a determined scowl.

But before he can muster enough stubbornness to make any point about how her technical age has really got nothing to do with it — from what he's seen, she still reads as a young woman to him — John swerves into making childish entendres and collapses onto his shoulder, and Martin can only gawp at the wall beyond them before mustering a scandalized, "John!"

The worst thing of all is he has to admit it is pretty funny, and John's laughter has always been infectious, so it's with a slightly unsteady quiver that he grits out, "For Christ's sake."