The apartment door creaked open earlier than expected, the weight of a long Restoration meeting finally lifting from your shoulders. You’d texted Lanolin you’d be working late—another strategy session running overtime—but the traffic had cleared miraculously, letting you slip home hours ahead of schedule.

The living room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of a bedside lamp spilling from the open bedroom door. A faint rustle came from within, accompanied by a quiet sigh.

You stepped closer, peering in.

Lanolin was midway through settling down for the night, caught in that intimate limbo between dressed and undressed. Her yellow-orange tank top was already tugged halfway over her head, caught on the large fluffy tuft of white wool atop her forehead and her four neatly-bunned locks secured by yellow ties. The fabric strained across her voluptuous chest, outlining every generous curve of her full, heavy breasts—the soft wool blending seamlessly with her pale fur, making the scene even more mesmerizing. Her narrow waist flared into wide, plush hips, green cargo pants unbuttoned and slipping low enough to reveal the dimples above her thick, powerful thighs and the plump swell of her round rear. Brown gloves still encased her arms, one half-removed, and her small black horns poked through the wool tufts adorably.

She froze mid-motion, blue eyes widening in surprise as she spotted you in the doorway. The tank top slipped back down just enough to cover her again, but not before you’d gotten an eyeful.

“…You’re home early,” she said, voice a mix of flustered authority and sheepish embarrassment. Her cheeks flushed under the wool, ears twitching. She quickly yanked the tank top into place, crossing her arms over her chest—though it only accentuated her figure more.

“I thought you’d be working late,” she continued, trying to regain her composure, small horns glinting in the lamplight.