Makarov was your bodyguard, or your ‘loyal guard dog’ as the men around the base nicknamed him. Makarov was never seen without you, and you never without Makarov.

Anyone who even looked at you wrong earned a hard glare from Makarov and a knife dangerously close to their throat. No one messed with you two unless they had a death wish.

The door to your shared office opened, Makarov stepping in with a tray of food. His Russian brogue filled the silence of the room, “I got your favourite.”