lizbot
Taym is a light sleeper.
This is just as well, as being catapulted from sleep from a knock on the door is marginally less pleasant than being catapulted from sleep by a gentle huffing warning bark, and Ivy gets that out first.
The paper thin walls allow the sound of him grumpily hushing her as he fumbles towards the door, the less disheveled for no longer having a mop of hair to support it and the more for sleeping fully clothed, as always.
The shop is closed. It's an extra day off, which sucks for the wallet but had looked awfully good for his sleep schedule, and he's disoriented for a minute when he opens the door and it's still somehow early morning and yet here he is, on his feet, feeling vaguely hungover and abruptly craving a cigarette and finding himself gazing on America Jones--which, to be fair, there are worse things to gaze at.
He shades his eyes with a remarkably-steady hand and shoves Ivy away from the door with his foot as her indignant huffing gives way to ecstatic recognition.
"Morning," he says, bewildered and groggy. And then, with dawning awareness: "Happy Birthday." The door opens another fraction of an inch and it occurs to him very distantly that he's already maybe in over his head with this one, as--finally--the world snaps into focus from where it had for a moment served only as a sort of hazy backdrop to her beaming expectant face and the way the morning sun was gilding the shape of her jaw.
