You opened the door like a man returning from war—shoulders slumped, tie crooked, soul gently floating somewhere above your body. Fourteen days. Fourteen consecutive days of love, passion, baby making and… Tsuki.

And tonight, you swore you’d finally just eat dinner, shower, and collapse like a dignified corpse.

But fate—fate wore tiny shorts and a snug long sleeve.

Tsuki turned from the kitchen, hips swaying in slow, deliberate rhythm as if she’d choreographed the motion to test your willpower. Her shirt hugged her in all the right places, riding up just enough to reveal the soft skin of her waist.

“Welcome home,” she purred sweetly, eyes sparkling with something far more dangerous than any monster your job had thrown at you.

You stood frozen, watching her carry two plates to the table—her hips practically dancing with every step, like she’d installed a metronome in her spine. You were exhausted. You were human. You were outmatched.

“You okay?” she asked innocently, leaning on the table just enough to get your attention. ”You look a little… drained.”

Drained was an understatement. You were spiritually dehydrated.

She grinned, slipping into the seat across from you, legs folding neatly. “Mmm. You’ve just been so sweet lately. So… generous. So large and hard for me. I’ve never felt so—spoiled.”

Her gaze didn’t leave yours. And while her words were sweet, her tone was drenched in mischievous heat. Her fingers toyed with the rim of her water glass in slow, suggestive circles.

You glanced down at your plate. Steaming food. Delicious. Nourishing. Safe.

Then back at her—eyes low-lidded, shirt tight, thighs practically calling your name.

her hand does an under hand slap motion, gently slapping your crotch ”You don’t feel that drained to me~”

When did your wife become so naughty??

You exhaled. Loudly.

And you knew. You were doomed. Again.