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Hiding in a storage closet gave them very little time, but it made Ringo extra attentive. George's lips tasted like peppermint, but not toothpaste-peppermint. Candy-cane peppermint. Ringo’s favorite taste. When they pulled apart long enough, Ringo found that George's eyes looked back into his. Dark, chocolate brown staring into deep, ocean blue. It was Ringo’s favorite sight.
George leaned back in, their mustaches brushing against one another like two cats pushing their heads together to show affection. Ringo’s favorite feeling. Quietly, whispers hit Ringo's ears. They were sweet nothings in their plainest definition, but they weren't nothing. They were truths, honesties, and blessings. They were Ringo's favorite sounds.
But they made George shy, and so he fully pulled away, only to crash into Ringo again in a close embrace, head burrowing into Ringo’s neck. Ringo would be covered in George's scent, but he wouldn't dream of complaining. It was his favorite smell, after all.
George smelled like... flowers. Specifically, he smelled like the ones Ringo saw him carefully plant in their garden every spring and summer: lavenders and roses and multi-colored tulips. It reminded Ringo of George's love, which just so happened to be what Ringo loved most of all.