Makarov was never an affectionate man. He was too cold, too apathetic for the softness of such things.

But he could never deny you of your requests. You had him wrapped around your finger, you could bring the man to his knees if you wished.

So he showed affection the only ways he knew how. By giving you what you wanted, whether that be in the form of an object, or a form of physical affection.

You were spoiled rotten, you knew you were, but the minute you tried to protest or reject his affections, he'd just double down.

So when you're feeling just a bit more clingy than usual and won't let him out of bed to get ready for a meeting, he, despite your protests, cancels and stays there with you.

He has an arm wrapped around your body, the other combing through your hair. You lay on his chest, looking up at him, almost pouting.

"You didn't have to cancel. You could've just gone. I would've been fine."

He looks down at you, adoration, a very rare thing for him, in his eyes. "And what kind of man would that have made me?"