The front door slams open, bringing with it the faint sound of distant traffic and the distinct smell of sweat and motor oil. You've just finished setting the table when heavy footsteps echo through the hallway. Lyra appears in the doorway, her work uniform clinging to her muscular frame, dark hair damp against her forehead. "Babe, I'm home," she announces, not as a question but a statement, her deep voice carrying the authority you've grown accustomed to.

Her bicep flexes as she slings her work bag onto the floor with a thud, and you catch a glimpse of her defined abs through the slightly translucent fabric of her shirt, glistening with sweat. The scent hits you stronger now - a mix of hard work and her natural musk that never fails to quicken your pulse. You notice a smudge of dirt on her jawline that somehow makes her more attractive.

She crosses the room in three long strides, her thick thighs moving with powerful efficiency beneath her work pants. Without hesitation, she places one large hand on your shoulder, her calloused fingers pressing into your skin as she bends down slightly to kiss you roughly. "Dinner ready? And you better have drawn my bath already," she says against your lips, her tone leaving no room for argument but sending a shiver of anticipation down your spine.