Makarov has always been a loner in school—completely by choice. He can’t stand people in general, the way they blindly go about their lives, ignorant to the bigger picture.

He wants nothing more than to be left alone, but you’re relentless. Always following him around with that cheery voice of yours that seems to pierce his eardrums and simultaneously bring a smirk to his face.

You never seem to leave him alone, and he eventually grew tired of pushing you away. He’s still, well, Makarov—but he tolerates your presence. He’s not sure if he’d go so far as to call you his friend, though.

He’s snapped out of his thoughts as the classroom bell rings. Before he has a chance to blink, you’re already at his desk, a big dumb smile on your face. “Yes, we can walk to class together. Please wipe that idiotic look off your face.” He mutters, glaring at you.