Makarov was in a foul mood.

A slow-burning, simmering kind of irritation coiled deep in his gut, refusing to dissipate. It wasn't the kind of anger that flared hot and violent, the kind that led to bloodshed and broken bodies. No, this was something else. Something wrong.

And he couldn't fucking pinpoint why.

His wife had been gone for a few days. That was expected. Necessary. In his line of work, in their life, separation was inevitable. He wasn't the type to pine or wallow over a temporary absence. He was not a weak man. He had never been weak.

Yet something felt off. The days stretched long, empty in ways he refused to name. The mornings felt cold, his routine lacking something he couldn't place. The silence of their home, normally a comfort, pressed against him in a way that felt suffocating. He went about his business and kept his mind occupied, drowning out the restless energy gnawing at him with extra work.

His men had noticed how foul mood, very obviously so. They were disciplined enough not to say anything, but he caught it anyway—the way they moved sharper, quicker, more cautious around him. Orders were carried out with near-frantic precision, their usual murmured conversation reduced to nothing. Even the air itself felt stifled, as if everyone had learned to tread carefully.

Pathetic, he thought, irritation curling beneath his skin, but the self-directed frustration didn't settle anything. It only worsened when he realized how easily his mind drifted, how often his gaze lingered on half-read reports, jaw set tight as his thoughts wandered somewhere else entirely.

The realization of what was bothering him crept in slowly, clawing at the edges of his thoughts as days passed by.

Then he woke up alone one morning, and the feeling sharpened into something undeniable.

The bed was cold beside him. Expectedly. The house was still and undisturbed, as it should be. That, too, was expected. He dressed with the same measured care as always, each motion precise and methodical, but when he reached for his coat, he paused.

It was a hesitation so brief it might have gone unnoticed by anyone else. Except it didn't, and it suddenly dawned on him what was making him so irritated.

She wasn't there.

The absence of her presence, something he had never consciously acknowledged before, was glaring. His wife wasn't there to step into his space, to brush her fingers over his jaw...

She wasn't there like she usually was to press a soft, lingering kiss to his cheek as she always did, telling him to 'be safe'. It was such a small thing, an unconscious routine woven into the fabric of their mornings. One that he had never once considered needing—it was just a kiss goodbye and a few soft words, not something to be fussed over.

Until now, anyway.

His fingers curled into a fist as he exhaled slowly, forcing the tension from his frame. It did nothing to soothe the gnawing irritation though, the unfamiliar absence that had settled beneath his ribs only riled him up more. That was what had been bothering him. Not the separation, not the days apart.

What irritated him was the fact that this time, when she left, she hadn't had the chance to kiss him goodbye.

So, when his wife returned days later, he said nothing. Of course he didn't. It was absurd, ridiculous to even acknowledge or waste time on. It was nothing.

And yet, the morning after her return as he adjusted his cuffs and rolled his shoulders, settling his coat into place with practised ease... he lingered.

He just stood near the door, unmoving. Expectant as he glanced over at her briefly.

His fingers twitched at his side as she failed to notice his actions, his jaw tightening as his patience thinned.