He distracts himself with drying off, the better not to hear the way that pause goes on, the uncertainty in Simon's tone. (Not adroit in listening for falsehood, Myr can nevertheless pin that for a lie and forgive it as a loving one. It hurts less to know it's gently meant.)

"Thanks. Don't think it would've washed away, but there's no telling." One learns, over the years, how to be brisk and efficient with a towel. He's dry enough to dress in short order, the cloth hung about his shoulders--though he'd considered briefly making an unsightly veil of it. Better for both of them, perhaps, though it would be a confession of shame he couldn't bear to make in front of Simon.

Yet when his friend speaks up--"I've got it,"--Myr holds his hand out with his face politely averted. "Damp I can fix Missing completely's a little harder. Where was it?" 'More than a bit damp' is putting it lightly; it's soaked, and Myr heaves a silent sigh of dismay before rolling it up and wringing it out. The quiet plash of water isn't enough to hide his next words, quiet as they are (out of habit, out of anyone could be listening,): "You're welcome to look, if you want."

At more than just his face, is the undertone; though it feels futile and foolish to imply as much, he can't keep from saying it. (He won't want to. Not after this, and that's as well. What point was there in continuing to offer?)