Chris slumped into his desk chair in the lecture hall, backpack thumping to the floor like it weighed a ton. The room buzzed with chatter—students flipping notebooks, sipping coffee from travel mugs, some scrolling phones last-minute for quiz notes. It was his third class of the day: Intro to Child Psychology, a core for his early education major. The prof, Dr. Ramirez, was already at the front, scribbling on the whiteboard with her usual energy.
"Alright, class, settle in," Dr. Ramirez called, her voice cutting through the noise like a friendly whip. "Today's dive: attachment theories. How early bonds shape kids' worlds. Think about your own—secure, anxious, avoidant? We'll break it down."
Chris pulled out his notebook, pen ready, but his mind wandered. Attachment—hit close to home after therapy digs on Dad's abandonment. Secure? Ha, not him. Anxious vibes all the way, especially with debt shadows lurking. He glanced at his phone—silent, no creepy texts today. Small win.
Class flowed: slides on Bowlby, Ainsworth, real-life examples. Chris jotted notes furious—strange situation experiment, how kids react to separation. Reminded him of Ichigo—little guy's secure attachment shone, thanks to Haru's steady love. Made Chris smile mid-lecture, thinking of the kid's hugs.
Group discussion kicked in—pair up, share a childhood memory tying to theory. Chris turned to his neighbor, a girl named Lena with purple highlights. "Hey, I'm Chris. You?"
"Lena. Okay, my turn: Mom worked doubles, left me with grandma. Felt anxious—clung when she came home."
Chris nodded. "Relate. Dad bailed young—Mom sick. Handled a lot solo. Avoidant now sometimes, bottle feelings."
They chatted easy—Lena shared tips from her psych minor, Chris mentioned caretaker gig. "Kids teach you theories live," he said.
Prof wrapped with homework: journal personal attachment style, how it plays in relationships. Chris packed up, mind buzzing. Classes like this fueled his major—wanted to help kids like he wished someone helped him young.
Outside, rain drizzled light. Chris texted Haru: Class done. Psych deep today—attachment stuff. Home soon.
Haru: Sounds heavy. Dinner waiting. Love you.
Chris smiled, pocketing phone. Walked campus brisk—dodging puddles, dodging thoughts of collectors. Quiet lately, but tension simmered.
Home: Ichigo tackled him at door. "Chris! Play dinos?"
Chris scooped him up, spinning. "After homework, little dude. How was preschool?"
Ichigo chattered Mia tales—new friend solid now. Haru in kitchen, sleeves rolled on button-up, stirring soup. "Welcome back. Hungry?"
Chris kissed cheek quick. "Starving. Class was good—attachment theories. Tied to therapy stuff."
Haru nodded. "Share over dinner?"
They ate family-style—soup, bread, Ichigo slurping loud. Chris elaborated: "Bowlby's idea—kids need secure base. Like you with Ichigo. Mine was shaky—Dad gone, Mom sick. Avoidant attachment: push feelings away, fear rejection."
Haru listened, hand on Chris's under table. "Makes sense. But you're breaking cycle—with us, therapy."
Ichigo piped: "What's tachment?"
Chris laughed. "Like big hugs that make you feel safe."
Ichigo hugged his dino. "Like this!"
Bath, stories, bedtime—Ichi out fast.
Living room dim, wine poured. Chris curled Haru's side. "Class homework—journal attachments in relationships. With you... anxious sometimes, fear you'll leave like Dad."
Haru pulled closer. "Not happening. You're stuck with me."
Kiss started soft—reassurance deep. Turned heated quick. Chris straddled lap, lips hungry. Tongues brushed urgent, breaths ragged.
Shirts shed—Chris's tee lifted slow, Haru's yanked. Skin met hot, slim pressing medium. Haru's mouth neck—kissing slow, nipping gentle. Chris arched, gasp breathy, grinding instinctive.
Pants undone impatient, pushed away. Bare, sweat-slick. Bodies aligned—Haru's hand wrapping firm, stroking rhythm rolls. Chris bucked, moans soft, legs tight.
Haru's free hand traced thigh, deepening friction. Pleasure coiled intense—eyes locked, hazel vulnerable, brown reassuring love. Whispers: "Safe with you," Chris panted; "Always here," Haru husky.
Climax shared—Chris tensing beautiful, release muffled cry. Haru followed, shuddering deep.
Tangled after, breaths evening. Chris smiled lazy. "Better than class."
Haru chuckled, kissing temple. "Homework done."
Morning routine: pancakes, giggles, drop-offs. Chris class-bound, Haru work. Day steady—psych notes reviewed, group therapy later.
Classes elaborated: psych theories mirroring life, fueling Chris's passion. College grind tough, but with Haru, Ichigo—worth it.