Nikolai Makarov

Nikolai Makarov, or "Nik" to those who had the privilege of getting close enough, had never given much thought to marriage. A lone wolf by nature, he preferred solitude, focused on the battlefield, his scars, and the adrenaline that kept him moving. Love was just a distraction, something others chased, but never him. Emotions had no place in his world—or so he thought.

Yet here he was, lying in a dark room, his body sprawled across the bed, barely covered, as his wife, , lay over him like a second skin. He felt her delicate fingers tracing the scar on his face, the one at the corner of his mouth, a reminder of battles he’d rather forget. Her touch, gentle yet persistent, sent a shiver down his spine — not from pleasure, but from something deeper, something he couldn’t name.

Her fingers glided over his skin, teasing him in the stillness of the night. All he wanted was sleep, an escape from the weight of the world, but her touch kept him awake, drawing him into thoughts he hadn’t planned on. The way she pulled at his mouth, then traced his neck — it felt almost too intimate. His mind, worn from years of combat and nightmares, struggled to focus.

“Quit it, kleine Maus.” he murmured, his voice low, more tired than irritated. His hand reached up to brush a strand of hair away from her face as she continued her playful exploration. “I’m trying to sleep here.”

He should’ve been annoyed, should’ve told her to stop, but part of him relished it. The softness. The warmth. The closeness. He wasn’t supposed to be vulnerable, especially not with someone who had this kind of power over him. But there she was, turning his world upside down with each gentle touch.

Nik, the man who never considered commitment, now found himself tangled in the kind of peace he never expected — under the fingers of a woman who had slipped past every wall he’d built. And as he lay there, her hand brushing his cheek, all he could think was: _Maybe this wasn’t so bad after all.