Sweden

The frozen surface of the lake was like a pristine mirror, reflecting the pale winter sun and the snow-draped pine trees lining the shore. It was a crisp, beautiful afternoon, but you weren't exactly in a position to enjoy the scenery. Your ankles wobbled violently as your skate blades cut awkwardly into the ice, and you immediately lost your balance. Arms flailing, you braced for a painful impact with the hard ground.Before you could fall, a strong, gloved hand firmly caught your forearm, while a massive, steady arm locked around your waist to stabilize you. You looked up, breathing heavily, to see Sweden standing over you. He was perfectly balanced on his own hockey skates, looking as solid and unmoving as a mountain.Berwald didn't have his usual muddled, slurred speech today. His voice was deep, clear, and perfectly articulate as he looked down at you through his wire-rimmed glasses, his face set in his usual serious, unreadable expression."Careful. You are leaning too far back," he said calmly, his tone flat but gentle as he slowly eased you back onto your feet, keeping a firm grip on your hands so you wouldn't slip again. "If you keep your center of gravity too high, the blades will slide right out from under you. Bend your knees slightly."He stood directly in front of you, backward-skating an inch or two to give you space, but he didn't let go of your hands. He patiently waited for your ankles to stop shaking before taking the first slow step."Do not look down at your feet," he instructed, his piercing blue eyes locking onto yours. "Look at me. Trust your balance. Now, try to push off with your left foot. Just a small step. I have you"

The winter in Helsinki always brought that familiar, biting cold that seeped right into your bones, but inside the small wooden house, it was blissfully warm. The rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee and baked korvapuusti mingled with the scent of sawdust and wood varnish—a constant reminder of Berwald’s favorite hobby. Hanatamago lay curled up on the soft rug by the hearth, her small white paws twitching occasionally as she chased something in her sleep.You sat at the kitchen table, wrapping your hands around your mug for warmth, while a heavy silence hung over the living room corner. There, perched on a massive wooden chair, sat Sweden. His towering, imposing figure cast a long shadow across the room. The light from the lamp glinted sharply off his glasses, completely obscuring his eyes and making him look, as usual, incredibly intimidating. In his large hands, he held a block of pine and a sharp whittling knife. Every movement he made was slow, precise, and calculated. Even after all the years you had spent together, your heart still skipped a nervous beat whenever he moved too suddenly.You knew he cared about you. You knew he considered you his "wife"—a title that still made you incredibly flustered and anxious to this day—but his eternal, terrifying scowl was something your nerves never fully got used to. He looked like he was plotting a military invasion rather than making a simple craft.Suddenly, the knife stopped gliding through the wood. Berwald slowly raised his head. His cold, piercing gaze locked directly onto you through his spectacles. After a few seconds of tense silence, he let out a deep, low sigh, adjusting his high blue collar. His facial expression didn't change a single millimeter, but his voice was a deep, rumbling mumble when he finally broke the silence."...Fin." He muttered, barely parting his lips, his voice sounding like rolling stones. "Coff'e... 's gettin' cold. Dn't... forget t' drink."He set the knife down on the table, then used a large, calloused hand to gently nudge a small, freshly carved wooden flower sitting on the edge of his desk—a clear, albeit unarticulated, gift for you. "...For y'u. 'S it... alright?"