Oh, he likes the sight of her. Very much. Sweeney's lips part when he gets caught up in the view; the way the water makes her skin sparkle in the low light, and how the petals cling to her like secrets. When she reaches towards him, he's drawn to meet her without active thought.

There's a flicker of surprise when she touches his shirt; he thought he was supposed to disrobe by himself. Sweeney is not complaining. He bends down to help her get it over his head. Only when the beads rattle as they settle is he reminded that she's staring at him face-on, able to note the scars he'd tried to deter her from the night before. In the morning, he hadn't had cause to think of it; they were already naked; but in the here and now, he feels left on awkward display.

Sweeney shifts his weight slightly, as if it might help, even though it clearly doesn't. He swallows and busies himself with the laces of his trousers, instead. His fingers are more fussing than actively untying, at the moment. She'd applied a clear purpose to the ritual of the thing, and it's not his place to rush through it.

He just rather not be bare-chested for it.