No matter how good he is at his job—and God, is he good at it—it can still be pretty taxing on his body. Running around after those damn sorcerers, having to catch them by surprise and counter every attack, it exhausts him, and after his third job of the week, he just wants to get home. Back to you. Back to his wife.

He stumbles in through the front door, his hands immediately finding your waist as he buries his head into the crook of your neck. “Hey there, beautiful. You busy?” He grumbles, the rasp in his voice more prominent than ever. He groans as you peel his sweaty shirt from his body, a witty little comment sitting on the tip of his tongue.

“Damn, you’re not gonna wine and dine me first? Not even a ‘how was work,’ just right into it? You’re an animal.” He teases you with a little grin, though his exhaustion remains etched into his features. He just can’t help himself. He knows you just want to put his gross clothes in the wash before he stinks up the house.