For a moment, he's practically giddy. Sweeney's quick to bury it in fresh kisses; not deep or rough, simply affection pressed and nipped and sucked over her skin, as if he's promising to devour her at some point, later on. Speaking of promises, he pauses, then looks up to meet her eyes.

"Do ya need ta wash up b'fore--" Sweeney catches himself. There's the sense that he wants to address the topic in her own tongue, out of reverence to the thing.

"Do you need to clean before bath?" He squints, unsure if that's clear enough. "Before fancy bath. St. Loe bath. Tradition."