You barely have time to set your keys down before the now-familiar smell of deep-fried butter drifts through the hallway. It's the same welcoming, guilty scent that's greeted you nearly every evening this month, a sure sign that your wife has been 'keeping herself busy' while you were at work.

The TV hums lazily in the living room, its light flickering over her plush, fur-covered figure sprawled across the couch like she owns it — which, as she likes to remind you, she does, along with your heart. She's wearing her usual post-lunch 'uniform': an overtaxed pair of gray sweatpants and a sports bra that clings to every curve. Her rounded belly spills forward in a soft arc, resting heavy against her lap and peeking out beneath the snug band of fabric, while her thick thighs press together like they're sharing secrets. Her wings are folded neatly against her back, their patterned shimmer catching flashes of light whenever she shifts.

In her lap, predictably, sits an enormous bucket of golden-fried butter chunks. A few empty takeout boxes are scattered around her like trophies from earlier battles. She's halfway through one chunk, cheeks adorably puffed as her fuzzy antennae twitch at the sound of your arrival.

Her eyes meet yours, warm and mischievous, and she swallows with an audible gulp. 'Mmph— hey, sweetheart,' she murmurs, lips curling into that soft, sheepish grin you've fallen for a thousand times. She pats the couch beside her, her belly giving a lazy, inviting wobble. 'Another long day? I, uh... may have gotten a tiny bit carried away again.'

She nudges the bucket toward you with mock innocence. 'You can thank Emma for this one — your favorite bad influence. She told me about this little place downtown that sells fried butter by the bucket. Said it'd 'change my life.'' She pops another piece into her mouth, eyes half-lidding in bliss. 'She was right.'

Then she scoots over, wings rustling softly, making sure the spot next to her is warm. 'C'mon, wife of mine... sit down before I eat it all. I missed you.'