Haru sat in the waiting room, leg bouncing like it had a mind of its own. The place was calm—soft gray walls, fake plants, magazines nobody read. Smelled like lavender diffuser trying too hard. He glanced at the clock: 3:55 PM. Five minutes till the session.
Aiko was already there, across the room, flipping through her phone. She looked up, gave a small wave. Haru nodded back, reserved as always. This co-parenting counseling thing was her idea—after spilling about her therapy journey, she suggested it. "For Ichigo," she'd said. "To make transitions smooth."
Haru agreed. Kid deserved parents who didn't awkward-dance around each other.
Chris had been supportive—dropped him off, kissed him quick in the car. "You'll crush it, Haru-san. Text me when you're out."
The counselor—Ms. Tanaka, mid-forties, warm smile—called them in. Cozy office: two chairs facing hers, tissues on the table like standard issue.
"Welcome," she said, gesturing to sit. "First sessions are about ground rules and goals. Haru, Aiko—thanks for coming."
They nodded. Aiko spoke first. "I want us to communicate better. For Ichigo."
Haru added, "Yep. Smooth handoffs, no mixed signals for him."
Ms. Tanaka smiled. "Great start. Let's unpack the past a bit—not to rehash blame, but understand patterns."
Aiko went deep—therapy had prepped her. "I avoided conflict back then. Felt ignored, didn't speak up till it exploded. The affair... escape, not love. Therapy taught me to voice needs early. I'm working on consistency now—being present, reliable."
Haru listened, dark brown eyes steady. His turn: "I shut down. Work stress, guarded walls. Didn't share enough. Learned from it—trying to open up more."
Ms. Tanaka nodded. "Both common. Avoidant and anxious styles clashing. Good you're aware."
They talked exercises: weekly check-ins via text, shared calendar for Ichigo's stuff, neutral drop-offs. Role-played a handoff gone wrong—awkward laughs when Haru "forgot" pickup time.
By end, it felt... productive. No magic fix, but lighter.
Outside, Aiko lingered. "Thanks for coming. Felt good."
Haru nodded. "Yeah. For Ichigo."
She smiled small. "See you Saturday? My place this time."
"Deal."
Haru drove home, mind swirling. Progress, real progress.
Chris opened the door before he knocked—Ichigo at preschool till 5. "How'd it go?"
Haru pulled him in, kissing deep right there. "Better than expected. She's changed. We both have."
Chris melted into it, hands on Haru's chest. "Proud of you."
The kiss heated fast—relief, pride, want mixing. Haru backed Chris against the wall, taller frame pressing close. Tongues brushed urgent, breaths quickening. Chris's fingers unbuttoned Haru's shirt slow, palms gliding over skin, thumbs circling till Haru shivered.
They stumbled to the bedroom, lips barely parting. Shirts shed—Chris's tee yanked off, Haru's button-up tossed. Skin met hot, Haru's medium build against Chris's slim one. Hands roamed: Haru's tracing waist, dipping lower; Chris's nails grazing back, sparking goosebumps.
Haru laid Chris back gentle, hovering, mouth trailing neck—kissing slow, nipping collarbone. Chris arched, gasp soft, legs spreading to pull Haru closer. Friction built through pants—slow grinds teasing sweet.
Clothes pushed away impatient—bare now, sweat-slick warmth. Bodies aligned perfect, Haru's hand wrapping firm, stroking in rhythm with rolls. Chris bucked up, moans breathy, fingers tangling Haru's black hair, tugging guide.
Pleasure coiled intense—eyes locked, hazel wild with need, brown burning love. Haru's free hand pinned Chris's wrist soft, angle deepening. Whispers: "Love you," Chris gasped; "Forever," Haru growled low.
Climax shared—Chris tensing beautiful, release crashing muffled against Haru's shoulder. Haru followed, shuddering hard, waves hitting deep.
Tangled after, breaths evening. Chris smiled lazy. "Celebratory stress relief?"
Haru chuckled, kissing forehead. "Best kind."
They showered quick—playful touches, more kisses under water. Dressed casual, picked Ichigo up—kid full of preschool tales.
Evening routine: park swings, dinner mess, bath splashes. Bedtime, Ichigo demanded "both tuck in." As he drifted, Haru and Chris shared couch time.
"Tell me more about the session," Chris said, head on Haru's lap.
Haru recounted—exercises, insights. "Felt healing. Like closing old chapters."
Chris nodded. "Good. Ichigo wins most."
Haru fingers in his hair. "We all do."
Night deepened—Chris staying, slipping bed quiet. Tangled under covers, past mending, future solid.