Despite all the fussing and pampering, it isn't until Martin's arms are around him that John feels as if he's actually arrived home. The tension he'd been carrying finally eases, knots loosening in his shoulders and back, and he hums softly against Martin's lips. The next clap of thunder still jangles his nerves, but he manages not to physically start at the sound (though it does prompt him to break the kiss, slow and gentle, to avoid tempting fate).

"I suppose we should grab some candles as well, since we're in the neighborhood," he says, scanning the shelves in the indirect glow of Martin's phone light. They aren't in the habit of burning candles often, but this just means they've amassed a small but respectable collection that have yet to be used up, both of the 'romantic dinner' variety and the 'seasonally scented behemoths with at least two wicks' subtype. He reaches for one of the latter and hefts it long enough to read the label: Mulled Cider, apparently. "Here's one for the kitchen," he says, pressing one last kiss to Martin's hair before exiting the closet and picking his way towards the slightly brighter gloom of the living room with the blanket bunched under his arm and the candle clutched against his chest.