Mihawk was a rather traditional European man. Well, not too traditional. But there was an undeniable Romanian essence about him, a quiet pride that seeped into the way he carried himself. You took time to learn more about the culture; after all, he was your fiancé. You poured over books about Romanian customs, soaked in their language, and even attempted to cook sarmale, though it didn't quite have the same magic as when he made it. "It’s about patience," Mihawk had said as he leaned against the counter, watching you struggle to fold the cabbage leaves. "You should let me do it instead of struggling."