Haru stared at the security camera feed on his phone, the grainy night-vision image showing the empty hallway outside their apartment. It was past midnight, Ichigo long asleep, but neither he nor Chris could settle. The latest threat voicemail replayed in Haru's head—the collector's voice dripping with fake casualness, hinting at "visits" if the next payment didn't come.
Chris paced the living room in his sweats, light brown hair messy from running hands through it, hazel eyes shadowed with worry. "I keep thinking every creak is them. This is my fault—"
Haru set the phone down, crossing to pull Chris into his arms. "Stop. Not your fault. We're fixing it."
Chris leaned in, but tension coiled tight in his slim frame. The doorbell rang—soft, hesitant. Both froze.
Haru checked the peephole. Aiko.
He opened the door slow. She stood there in a coat, small bag over shoulder, face pale but determined. "Sorry it's late. Can I come in?"
Haru stepped aside. Chris hovered behind, surprised. "Aiko? Everything okay?"
She nodded, shedding her coat. "I heard the voicemail. Haru forwarded it to me earlier—for the co-parenting log, he said. But... those threats mentioned Ichigo. My son. I couldn't just sit home."
Haru exhaled. "You shouldn't be here alone this late. Dangerous."
Aiko's eyes flashed. "Exactly. That's why I'm here. Therapy taught me not to avoid hard stuff anymore. Those bastards threatening my kid? No way."
Chris blinked. "You want to help? Let me help you."
Aiko sat on the couch, posture straight. "Yes. First—I'm calling my lawyer tomorrow. He handles nasty divorce cases, knows people who deal with loan sharks. Second, I have savings. Not tons, but enough to chip in another payment if it buys time."
Haru shook head. "We're not feeding them more—"
"I know," Aiko cut gentle. "But strategic. Buy breathing room while police build case. Third—I'm staying tonight. Guest room or couch. Safety in numbers, right? And Ichigo wakes scared sometimes—familiar face helps."
Chris's tension eased a fraction, genuine smile peeking. "That's... really kind. Thanks."
Aiko's eyes misted. "He's my baby too. Therapy made me face how I abandoned him emotionally back then. Not repeating that. Ever."
Haru nodded slow, reserved walls cracking further. "Appreciate it. Really."
They talked plans late—police updates, lawyer names, alarm checks. Aiko shared therapy insight: "Fear's normal. But action beats paralysis. We protect our kid—together."
Chris yawned eventually, worry lines softer. "Guest room's yours. Thanks for showing up."
Aiko hugged him quick—awkward but sincere. "Family sticks, weird shape or not."
She settled in guest room. Haru and Chris slipped to bedroom, door closed soft.
Chris whispered, "Didn't expect that from her."
Haru pulled him close. "She's changed. We all are."
Comfort sparked need—Chris tilting up, lips brushing grateful. Haru kissed back deep, hands framing face, tongues teasing slow. Chris sighed into it, fingers unbuttoning Haru's shirt, palms gliding chest.
Shirts shed—Chris's tee lifted, Haru's tossed. Skin met warm, slim pressing medium. Haru's mouth neck—kissing slow, nipping gentle. Chris arched, gasp soft, grinding instinctive.
Pants undone impatient, pushed away. Bare, sweat-slick. Bodies aligned—Haru's hand wrapping firm, stroking rhythm rolls. Chris bucked, moans breathy, legs tight.
Haru's free hand traced thigh, deepening friction. Pleasure coiled intense—eyes locked, hazel grateful burning, brown protective love. Whispers: "Safe with you," Chris panted; "Always," Haru husky.
Climax shared—Chris tensing beautiful, release muffled cry. Haru followed, shuddering deep.
Tangled after, breaths evening. Chris smiled lazy. "Aiko showing up... feels like hope."
Haru kissed temple. "Team growing. We'll win this."
Morning: pancakes, Ichigo thrilled "Mommy here!" Aiko helped breakfast, natural with kid. Plans solidified—lawyer calls, police check-in.
Threat loomed, but support circled tighter—Aiko's unexpected ally strengthening the front.