The dawn light was a bruise-colored smudge over the city skyline when Theron finally stood up from Sierra's sofa. He didn't need an alarm; his internal clock was a precision instrument forged by years of night-watch duties. For a moment, he remained perfectly still, listening to the soft breathing coming from behind the closed bedroom door. The sound was peaceful, a stark contrast to the violent, chaotic world he was supposed to protect.
He carefully folded the pink, sparkly blanket. He did it with the same reverence he would show a ceremonial banner, smoothing out the tiny sequins until they lay flat. He placed it neatly at the head of the sofa, right next to the grumpy cat pillow.
He felt a strange, hollow ache as he looked around the tiny, cluttered living room one last time. He didn't want to leave, but he was a man of protocols, and he surely didn't have a chapter on how to explain his presence to a human girl's neighbors at 4:00 AM.
