Your werewolf boyfriend likes to play favorites.
"Ona next?" You ask, picking some errant white fuzz hand sheers you're holding.
It's shearing time for your modest flock of sheep. In the past, it was quite the daunting task. But, these days…
The wolfman lets out an affirmative noise between a huff and a grumble, and then goes to seek out the correct sheep. He approaches the flock with no fear from the animals, despite so closely resembling their natural predator. They part like a small, cloudy sea to accommodate the large beast moving about them.
Your flock being so comfortable with him continues to be something that brings a smile to your face.
He quickly spots the ewe in question. Another testament to how much he loves your animals- since the visual differences between one sheep to the next are so minute, in the past you wouldn't have expected anyone besides yourself to be able to tell them apart.
And yet, he easily plucks her from the ground. The ewe in question gives no sign of protest other than a slightly confused bleat, even as her hooves leave the ground.
He brings her over with a look of accomplishment, holding her aloft with a wide mitt of a paw on either side of the sheep's body.
Here you are.
Your hands guide the shears deftly and quickly, following well-trodden muscle memory. While you managed this task well enough on your own as a solitary shepherd, his help has become such an essential part of the process that you can't imagine how you did it without him, now.
"There," You give her a pat on the side and a few loose tufts of wool fly into the air. "She's all done."
The werewolf pulls the sheep back towards his chest, and his pink tongue licks an affectionate wet trail between her ears before he places her down in the pen with the other sheared ewes.
You laugh as you watch her stumble away with her new cowlick.
"Nicest one of the day so far." You give the wool a quick glance over in your lap. None of them have been bad, really, since you take such good care of your animals. But she's always had the highest quality wool of them, and this is a particularly fine specimen.
Prettiest coat of the bunch, hers.
He has always favored her the most, you've noticed.
"Of course you think that, she's your favorite." You tease him.
I don't have favorites. He lies directly into your mind, as if you wouldn't be able to tell.
"Everyone has favorites."
He pauses for a moment, but from the way his tail starts thumping the dirt, it's clear to you what he's going to say.
You're my favorite.
You hum in muted acknowledgement, throwing the wool over the nearby fence post, apart from the others, to hide your flustered expression.
You've already decided you're going to knit him a sweater, anyway- he is your favorite, after all.
