I love it.

When he smiles.

Those cute dimples in his cheeks.

When they turn red.

He giggles and blushes like a little kid. It's quite endearing, really. He reminds me of a child. Big, amethyst eyes, that seem so innocent but really they've seen the worst this world has to offer. That's what I don't love.

But I love it when he's determined. Even if it's by the smallest things, say, when he tries to speak to me in Swedish, and pronounces just about everything wrong (it's so damn adorable), but yet he keeps trying. He'll repeat himself over and over until it sounds right to at least him, and I love it.

I love even more when he speaks in his own language. So sure of himself. Intelligent. Proud. I know he's proud. He's proud that he speaks Finnish. He's proud he's just Finland. I see it in his eyes when we're watching the news, and his country is getting praised for something, because the world does not praise his home much, even though they should. He deserves it.

I love it when he gets flustered. That's when he is at his most cutest. He gets like this most often when I call him my 'wife', and that's why I always do it. He insists he is a man, and obviously, he is. But I like it because I know I can get away with saying it, and I love when he blushes, and his cheeks puff in frustration, and he sputters and stutters and begs me not to call him that.

I love it when we're in the bedroom, just the two of us. That's when he lets me call him my wife. I love it when he's arching off the sheets into me, his pale, creamy skin is like that of an angel's in the moonlight. I love it when he's panting and moaning my name, not Sweden, or Sverige, or what have you, my name, Berwald. He says it over and over and I wouldn't care if that was the only thing he knew how to say as long as he said it like that.

I love how he feels. When I'm inside of him, I can't help but lose control. I love when he shivers under my touch, when his skin warms under my kisses and caresses. I love it when he grasps onto me like he's about to fall- like I'm the only thing that can keep him alive.

I love it when he finishes, and he cries my name. Sometimes he'll repeat it, like it's a mantra. He'll dig his nails into my back and cry my name into my shoulder and I never really mind. Because I love it. I think he knows I do. I think that's why he does it.

I love it when he falls asleep, curled up into a tiny ball. I love it when he lets me cuddle him. I want to protect him, I want him to know that he's safe, that he's loved. Because he is. I love it when he sighs as I run my hand through his beautiful little head of blonde. I love it when he snuggles closer.

I love the mornings after. I love waking up and seeing his beautiful sleeping face. I love kissing him good morning and watching those beautiful gems he has for eyes open, and I love the smile that illuminates his face. I love being able to just cuddle him for one more extra hour before he decides we need to get up. I don't mind letting him decide.

I love it when he's making breakfast in the kitchen. When he's singing to himself, or sometimes he even recites poems or stories. I love watching him. His body is so tiny compared to mine, and it's like watching a doll. He hates when I compare him to things like that, so I refrain from telling him as much as possible, because I like to think in my head that he is a doll. And just mine.

I love it when it's getting later in the day. It's a free day, no meetings or work. I love it when he asks me to come outside with him and watch the sun set. I love it when he sits so close he's nearly in my lap and yet he isn't, and that doesn't bother me at all. I don't watch the sky, I watch him. He's so open-minded, so willing to welcome everything in the world. I love that about him. He's the kindest man I've ever met. I regret not being able to always protect him, but I know I can now, and I sure as hell know that no ones ever going to hurt him again, not as long as I'm Sweden. I never tell him that though, but I think he knows. He could hate me with every fiber of his being, but I don't think I would really care.

I love it when he says he loves me.

And well, I love him.

And I never mind telling him that.