That sound and that tone cut right through Ford, clawing their way inside him and sinking in hooks low in his stomach. A clear-headed Stanford Pines might think oh, fuck, and try to cool off a little, because that feeling he had was definitely inappropriate. But there are a lot of chemicals swirling around his system right now, and he hears I want-, and staying back is impossible. Before Ford can say anything in reply, he's moved in for a kiss he can't help. This one's hot and a little loose and entirely uncalculated.

"What," he whispers, almost before the kiss breaks, keeping his mouth so close it's nearly still touching Bill's. "What is it?"

Now, Ford knows what people are usually asking for when they say I want-- in a tone like that and cut themselves off. He's familiar with the entire request being too forward, or someone being too awkward, or a setting being too public for the whole thing to get out. But it's Bill, and -- does Bill Cipher even fuck? He might not. He might be talking about something else, like taking this somewhere with a severed head that never stops screaming, or Ford's blood, or something. Who knows how much common ground Bill actually has with him when it comes to this sort of thing.

(Ford Pines's romantic self-sabotage instinct is still going strong.)