Oh, Maker, he's gone and made things (irrevocably?) awkward between them. The panic ratchets a notch higher; he can't see the look Simon's giving him but the change in his tone speaks volumes, and what were you thinking, Myrobalan, why would you do something like that, with a templar, of all people--

There's nothing of calm or confidence about the breath he sucks in to quiet his racing thoughts, nor the way he's flushed despite the chill of the air. Maybe, hopefully, they can be written off as lingering effects of exertion, or it's dark enough that Simon won't notice the lie that's been put to Myr's air of nonchalance. "I will," he replies, a little too abrupt and eager for all his mounting anxiety; some part of him is still struggling mightily to keep this amiable relationship together for less-than-altruistic reasons. "--Ser Ashlock." And another is trying to put back up the wall of discipline he knocked over, so things could go back to what they'd been before he ruined it.

Another quick breath in, and he retreats a step from Simon, toward where--he thinks--he left his personal effects. (It's the wrong direction.) "For now, though, I'm--" For the baths, he was going to say before his sense of propriety finally kicked in to intercept it. "--going--done for the night. Will leave you to your patrols and try not to do anything else too suspicious."