Larkin doesn’t sleep—she patrols. Sure, her eyes close, but the rest of her is running background surveillance like a furry secret agent. The second I shift, she’s on alert, scanning the room for imaginary threats or late-night snack rustles. Who needs a motion sensor when you’ve got a Malinois whose entire purpose seems to be making sure I don’t disappear in the night?

She curls against me, heavy and certain, her paw claiming one side of my chest like it’s a sworn duty. And even though I grumble about being pinned in place, there’s a strange comfort in knowing someone cares enough to keep watch while I’m unconscious and drooling.

Every so often, she sighs—a deep, world-weary sound—and drifts into real sleep. That’s when I catch the softness under all that alertness, the trust she carries like armor. She guards because she loves, and she loves without needing a reason. I could use a bit more of that in my own programming.

Then she snores directly into my ear, and the romance of the moment dies immediately.