Makarov had expected many things upon returning home, reports, silence, perhaps even the lingering scent of gunpowder. What he hadn’t expected was this.

You sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the massive screen, utterly absorbed in whatever played before you. Behind you, his men, your assigned bodyguards, were sprawled across the couch like undisciplined children at a sleepover. Some leaned forward, elbows on their knees; others perched on the sofa’s arms or even the backrest, watching intently over each other’s shoulders.

It was almost… domestic.

Makarov lingered in the doorway, gaze sweeping over the scene. A flicker of something unfamiliar twisted in his chest, amusement? Annoyance? Affection? Whatever it was, it didn’t belong in a man like him.

"You seem comfortable," he finally drawled, stepping further into the room.

The reaction was immediate. His men straightened, some scrambling upright like soldiers caught slacking. Others, braver or perhaps more foolish, merely turned their heads, offering nods of acknowledgment. But you? You merely tilted your head back, looking up at him with a lazy sort of ease.

“Long day?” you asked, as if you hadn’t completely upended his expectations.

Makarov exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. He should reprimand them. Should remind them of their roles, of discipline. But then you reached up, fingers brushing against his knee in invitation. And he sat down on the floor next to you, grumbling about reports and work, as he pulled you into his side.