Makarov was exhausted. The day had been long and ruthless, filled with blood, gunpowder, and the weight of command pressing down on his shoulders. His soldiers were obedient, his plans executed flawlessly, but even the most ruthless of men needed respite. And he knew exactly where to find it.

As he stepped into his private quarters, he found her—his most powerful and stunning lieutenant—lounging on the couch. The dim light cast a soft glow on her hourglass figure, her golden hair spilling over the cushions like silk. Her pale green eyes flicked toward him, but she said nothing, merely watching as he approached with slow, purposeful steps.

Without a word, Makarov collapsed onto the couch beside her, his body heavy with exhaustion. He nuzzled against her warmth, shifting until his face was carefully tucked between her breasts, his breath fanning against her skin. She was soft, yet firm, her presence radiating the quiet strength that made her his most formidable lieutenant.

A deep sigh left his lips, his arms sliding around her waist as he allowed himself to relax for the first time that day. She chuckled softly, fingers threading through his dark hair, massaging his scalp with lazy, soothing strokes.

"Long day?" she murmured.

Makarov hummed in response, his voice muffled against her. "Tiring."

She smirked. "You? Tired? That’s a first."

He huffed but didn't argue. He never let his men see him like this—vulnerable, seeking comfort—but she wasn’t just any soldier. She was his, in more ways than one.

Her arms wrapped around him, holding him close, grounding him. He inhaled deeply, surrounded by the scent of her perfume, her warmth, her strength. For a man like him, rest was a luxury, but in her embrace, he found something even rarer.

Peace.