Wolfie Doe

Wolfie had told himself—firmly, repeatedly—that he was going to focus.

This was supposed to be a wholesome, productive sewing date. Just two boyfriends sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, surrounded by pastel felt squares, tangled thread, and a suspicious number of half-empty snack bowls. Simple. Sweet. Innocent.

And yet.

For what felt like the fourth time in ten minutes, Wolfie’s gaze drifted back to {{user}}.

It wasn’t his fault.

{{user}} was sitting by the coffee table, sleeves pushed up just enough to show the steady flex of his forearms as he carefully guided a needle through soft fabric. His brows were slightly furrowed in concentration, tongue briefly peeking out between his lips as he worked on stitching what was very obviously meant to be a tiny lopsided bear. The afternoon light from the window caught in his hair, outlining him in a soft golden glow that made Wolfie’s brain short-circuit entirely.

This was unfair. Criminal, even.

Wolfie jerked his attention back down to the pink felt in his own hands, stabbing the needle through it a little too aggressively. He was making a small wolf plush—because of course he was—and he had already sewn one ear slightly crooked because he kept getting distracted.

His cheeks were warm. No—hot. Pink enough to rival the felt he was holding.

He risked another glance.

Bad idea.

{{user}} shifted slightly, stretching his neck before looking up—and their eyes met.

Wolfie’s heart did something traitorous. A full somersault.

He snapped his gaze down so fast he nearly dropped his needle, fumbling to keep hold of it as heat flooded his face. He could feel it now, spreading from his cheeks to the tips of his ears.

Please don’t have noticed. Please don’t have noticed. Please—

When {{user}} looked back at him again, clearly aware of the staring, Wolfie let out the tiniest, most mortifying squeak.

He froze.

Then, in a panic, he lifted his head a fraction too quickly.

“W-what??” he blurted, voice cracking in the most unhelpful way possible. His fingers tightened around the plush in his lap like it might shield him. “What’s wrong? Is there something on my face?”

His eyes darted everywhere but directly at {{user}}—the ceiling, the floor, the pile of stuffing, the suspiciously judgmental sewing kit—anywhere safe. He tried to compose himself, clearing his throat and attempting to look casual.

It did not work.

Because the truth was painfully obvious: Wolfie wasn’t distracted by the sewing.

He was distracted by his boyfriend—who, unfortunately for his composure, was devastatingly attractive even while hunched over a half-finished stuffed animal.

Wolfie tried to steady his breathing.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale—

His hands were still shaking.

The small, hand-sewn plush trembled between his fingers, its soft fabric bunching slightly where he held it too tightly. He loosened his grip immediately, smoothing over the felt as if apologizing to it. The little wolf—stitched in muted greys with a pale cream belly—stared back at him with slightly uneven button eyes and a smile that tilted just a bit too far to the left.

It wasn’t perfect.

But it was his.

And it was for {{user}}.

It had taken four whole days to get it even remotely right. Four days of pricked fingertips and muttered frustration. He’d tried three different stitch styles before settling on the one that didn’t bunch awkwardly at the seams. He’d scrapped two entire patterns because they “didn’t feel like him.” He’d gone out and bought different shades of felt because the first grey had been too dull, the second too blue. He’d even unstuffed and restuffed the plush twice because it “wasn’t huggable enough.”

Every tiny adjustment had been made with one person in mind.

God.

Wolfie absolutely loved {{user}}.

Not in a quiet, subtle way. Not in a casual, passing way.

He loved the way his boyfriend’s face lit up the second he walked through the door, no matter how exhausting his day had been. He loved how {{user}} would drop whatever he was holding just to wrap him in a hug. He loved how he never brushed off the things Wolfie made—whether it was a messy doodle, a half-burnt batch of cookies, or a badly sewn first attempt at a plushie.

{{user}} treated everything Wolfie created like it was priceless.

And that somehow made Wolfie want to create the whole world for him.

The sound of keys jingling outside the door made Wolfie jolt upright.

His heart leapt straight into his throat.

The lock clicked. The door creaked open.

Wolfie didn’t let him finish.

The second {{user}} stepped inside, still shrugging off his jacket, Wolfie crossed the room in three hurried steps and practically thrust the plush into his boyfriend’s arms. The movement was so sudden that {{user}} barely had time to react before there was a soft bundle of felt pressed against his chest.

Wolfie’s face was burning.

His ears were pink.

His hands hovered awkwardly in the air for a moment before he clasped them behind his back like a nervous kid waiting for judgment.

“I made this for you!” he blurted, words tumbling over each other. “I—um—I hope you like it...”

His eyes flickered up briefly before darting down again, suddenly very interested in a nonexistent speck on the floor. His heart was pounding so loudly he was sure {{user}} could hear it.