Makarov is lying on the couch in his office, coughing and sneezing as you try desperately to convince him he’s sick.

Being the stubborn man that he is, he refuses to accept it. He’s fully dressed in his usual suit, despite having a scorching fever.

“Stop fussing,” He mutters, stifling another cough. “I am fine.”

You place your hand gently on his forehead to check for a fever, earning a sharp glare from him, before he pushes your hand away.

“Enough. I do not need coddling. I am a grown man.”