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Somewhere between the front door and his, Taym had reached a decision. It seemed, superficially, a generous one, but Taym being Taym, ulterior motives were at play.

It was as a result of that decision that he did not even stop at his room (after swinging by the showers and peeling off the swim trunks he was still wearing under his jeans), instead proceeding directly across the hall and lifting his hand to knock.

He had seen Peyton once since she'd crashed in his room. She hadn't seen him, which was probably for the best given the state she was in: leaving someone else's room all bedhead and bare legs. He'd been too busy getting dragged out on perimeter duty to torment her about it, and the days between had been packed--lectures, duties, occasional snatched hours of sleep.

There was no particular reason to expect she'd be in her room right now--it was late morning--but Taym was feeling decidedly optimistic after his lucky streak that morning. So he knocked, and then he leaned up against the doorframe with an enormous grin plastered on his face and his arms crossed over his chest. He felt this made him look rakish. Really it just made him look enormously suspicious. He'd succumbed to the urge to shave, finally, but his hair and shirt had the vaguely-crunchy appearance of having been dragged through saltwater. He smelled like wet clothes left to dry where they'd sat on top of his usual cigarette stink and the same "I'd kill for laundry and a hot shower" reek everyone was carrying around. It wasn't a great addition.

"Thought you weren't trying to get into anyone's pants," he said, grin broadening. "Who was it?"

Nope. That was not happening. He laughed, shoving his foot in the door to block her.

"You don't wanna do that, sweetheart. I'm about to make your day a lot better than it already is, suffused, as I imagine it must be, with the rosy tincture of puppy love or at the very least adolescent hormones."

He reached out a hand. "Come here," he said, half-demand, half-plea.

He held her by the hand for a second, grinning.

"What? You don't trust me? You're going to feel so bad about doubting me, in about three minutes."

He pulled her out into the hallway, and then, caught up in the enjoyment of her mortification and his good mood at having done something productive already that morning, Taym, feeling fairly giddy, attempted to take advantage of having her by the hand to coax her into an impromptu and highly unskilled one-armed waltz. Her cooperation was irrelevant. He'd try regardless, for about three seconds, before reaching for his door and tugging her along. Whatever business he was about to conduct, he clearly preferred to do so from his own room.

"Is he the jealous type? Should I stop? Come here, I need to change this ******** shirt, it smells like a wharf."

"Making myself useful," he answered cryptically, releasing her hand to unlock the door.

It still smelled like bleach. Apparently no amount of the power being out was going to separate Taym from scrubbing down his entire room on a daily basis.

"Sit," he said, indicating the chair as he shrugged off his coat and shed the scarf hanging loosely over his shoulders. Plenty of people had abandoned the uniform entirely where it could be permitted, but Taym wasn't among them. "And turn around," he added as he opened his dresser. "It's dark in here but it ain't that ********' dark."

He turned her back to her anyway--although honestly, it was entirely possible his back was even more horrific than his front--and kept talking, interrupted briefly, twice, as he peeled off his shirt and pulled on a fresh one.

"Listen," he said. "I'm not judging you. Good for you, go get 'em tiger. I mean I think you're a damned fool to s**t where you eat, but everyone on the island's a damn fool, apparently. If you don't wanna kiss and tell, that's your business. Anyway, I didn't drag you over here to ask you about your love life. Turn around," he demanded, flopping down on the bed across from her, back in his coat and grinning. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. "I got you a present."

The grin faded somewhat.

"Oh, come on," he said, searching her face. The grin rapidly faded the rest of the way, replaced by a worried expression. "Do you mean you didn't do anything, or do you mean you did s**t and wish you hadn't?" Taym looked about as threatening as a wet cat most of the time, but an expression flickered over his face that was reminiscent of a skinny doberman putting himself between his owner and a stranger. "I'd be much happier if you're making that face because you really didn't do anything and wish you had, but I swear to god, you can tell me." And what exactly he'd do with the information that someone had disrespected her was unclear.

He narrowed his eyes, waiting for her to break, but when it didn't happen he seemed satisfied.

Which just meant that he went back to teasing her instead, albeit more gently. "A friend," he said skeptically, corner of his mouth twisting up. "OK. Sure."

He reached out to pull her hand off of her leg, turning it palm upwards, and then reached into a pocket. "Eyes closed," he directed.

He put something into her hand, closing her fingers over it before letting go: something small and smooth that, when she opened her fingers, she would see was gleaming with the simple shape that Miranda had scrawled on the blackboard for them.

"I'm pretty sure I've got blisters coming. Spent all morning with a pocketknife." A beat, and he added: "I literally wrestled a ******** kraken for that."