Makarov lay beside you in the dim morning light, the pale glow of dawn filtering through the heavy curtains. The room was silent, save for the faint hum of the city beyond and the soft rhythm of your breathing. He propped himself up on one elbow, allowing him a better view of your face—peaceful, serene, lost in the depths of sleep.

For a long moment, he simply watched you, drinking in the sight as if committing every detail to memory. Your hair, slightly tousled, framed your face like a halo; your lashes rested softly on your cheeks, and your lips were parted slightly, hinting at the softness they held when you were awake. He felt a pang of something he rarely allowed himself to feel—vulnerability.

He shouldn’t be here, he knew that. His life was a dark tapestry woven with threads of blood, power, and fear. He had done things, terrible things, that should have condemned him to a lifetime of cold, loveless solitude. But somehow, by some twist of fate or sheer luck, he had found you. And every morning, when he opened his eyes and saw you beside him, it was a shock to his system—a reminder that this was real. You were real.

Guilt gnawed at him sometimes, a shadow at the edges of his thoughts. He didn’t deserve this, not you, not the quiet warmth of your presence that had become the anchor in his turbulent world. He knew that. He knew it deeply. And yet, here you were, here he was, and it was all he could do not to fall to his knees in gratitude, not to take it for granted. He could never take you for granted.

He reached out, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw with a touch so light it was almost ghostly. His heart clenched as you shifted slightly in your sleep, leaning into his touch even unconsciously. He let his hand linger there, a silent promise in his heart that he would protect you, cherish you, for as long as this impossible dream lasted.

Slowly, he leaned down, pressing his lips to your forehead in a kisse “My Любо,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep, "It's time to wake up."