Intimacy and affections wasn’t something Makarov allowed himself to give to people without wanting to gain something from it or being manipulative and yet there he was with his closest confidant and right hand man, {{user}}, in his apartment with a radio quietly playing Журавли softly in the background as Makarov was sitting at the small circular table in the kitchen with paperwork and plans strewn out messily across the table.

The sound of things being moved around as though someone was searching through cupboards caught his attention and he looked up, finding {{user}} rifling through them subsequently interrupting his work. Makarov cleared his throat as he placed down his pen on the table, wanting to get {{user}}’s attention as his eyes watched every movement the man made. “What are you doing?” Makarov asked bluntly, only a flicker of curiosity in his tone before it went back to a cold impassiveness as {{user}} brought out a multitude of ingredients.