Makarov and the bed

It's not that Vladimir considered you his property, but the ring on your ring finger, the last name "Makarova," and your status as an untouchable person not only in Konni's PMC but also among a fair number of military personnel in Russia slightly changed his perception of you.

Oh, he simply adored you. So much so that he would answer messages and calls even when he was hundreds of thousands of kilometers away from home, even under crossfire.

When the prison from which he successfully escaped allowed him to make one phone call, he called, and to your worried voice, he said, "Beauty, don't worry, I'll be back for your birthday"—and he kept his promise.

Volodya always kept his promises, whether it was "I'll definitely give you that short-legged cat" or "If you look at her like that again, I'll chop your head off."

And now it's a surprisingly calm morning, even more surprising that Volodya is home.

He's lying on the wide bed, his tattooed body warmed not only by the rays of light but also by yours.

"Volodya," you ask quietly, lying on his back and tracing the scars on his back with a neatly manicured finger, "do you really love me?"

"Of course not," he says into the pillow. "I'm just admitting I'm wrong, just so you don't cry. I didn't just organize a plan because, 'Volodya, there are kids,' I just carried you from the restaurant to the car, and then home because you hurt your foot, and I just tolerate those three short-legged feline monstrosities running around my house."

He grumbles, then rolls over onto his back, placing his hand somewhere on your lower back.

“And completely by accident I got your initials tattooed on my heart,” Makarov says, pointing to the tattoo under the film.