He stood silently in the woods, watching. He could see her through the window, sitting in her grandmother's bed, reading one of her novels. It was getting late, and she would sleep soon. She would place her book mark between the pages, close the book and set it in the little table by her bed, then she would reach over, turn out the light, and curl up beneath the blankets. He knew, because he'd watched her do it a thousand times.
He missed being in the house with her. He missed holding her, kissing her, making love to her. He missed the little mundane moments too, lying in bed while she read a book, or just sitting in the silence together. And he missed watching her sleep. Her head resting on the pillow, bright blonde hair fanned out around it, the rise and fall of her ample chest, the curve of her body, bare to him and the night, all bathed in moonlight, illuminating her tan skin and light hair and lending them an ethereal glow.
He remembered brushing her hair. It had always been so long and thick and would practically flow through his hands like water. It put them both at peace, to sit there doing something so tame when their lives always seemed to be so full of excitement, and not always the good kind. He hated to admit to himself the number of times she had been hurt, almost killed, because of him. But she wasn't his to worry about anymore, at least not so she could see it. So he would stay back, watch from a distance, and be her shadow when he could.
From his place in the trees he stood a silent sentinel, guarding her while she slept from anything that could lurk in the woods surrounding her house. He worried about her. Such a frail, beautiful thing, living so far away from anyone that could help her. Except for him. So he stood in her woods and watched her sleep, and sang her a silently lullaby beneath his breath.