Haru Natsuki slammed his laptop shut, rubbing his temples like he could squeeze out the headache pounding behind his eyes. Another late night at the office, crunching numbers for that damn project that never seemed to end. His dark brown eyes, usually warm but now shadowed by those pesky dark circles, flicked to the clock—9:45 PM. Shit, he was late again. Ichigo's bedtime was supposed to be 8:30, and the babysitter he'd hired last minute probably hated him by now.
He grabbed his keys, button-up shirt rumpled and sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing a hint of that medium build he barely maintained with weekend jogs. At 25, life as a single dad felt like juggling chainsaws while walking a tightrope. Divorced two years ago, Haru had thrown himself into work and raising his four-year-old bundle of energy, Ichigo. The kid was his world—black wavy hair just like his dad's, bright brown eyes full of mischief, always clutching some toy or pouting for more playtime.
Haru dashed out of the office building, the cool evening air hitting him like a wake-up call. His apartment was a quick subway ride away, but every minute felt like an eternity. "Come on, Haru, get your act together," he muttered to himself, slinging his bag over his shoulder. He wasn't one for chit-chat with strangers; his reserved vibe kept people at arm's length, but with Ichigo, that serious expression melted into a soft smile that lit up his tired face.
When he finally pushed open the door to his cozy two-bedroom place, the smell of fresh pasta hit him first. Not the babysitter's usual microwave junk. Voices floated from the kitchen—Ichigo's giggles mixed with a deeper, cheerful laugh. Haru paused, heart skipping a beat. He'd interviewed a bunch of caretakers last week, but this was the new guy's first day. Chris something-or-other. Nineteen, college student, nailed the references and the trial playdate with Ichigo.
Haru stepped in, and there he was: Chris Iesuke, apron tied over a simple shirt and pants, light brown hair messy in that effortlessly charming way, light green eyes sparkling as he stirred something on the stove. Slim but healthy, about 175 cm, he moved with an energetic bounce that contrasted Haru's worn-out shuffle. Chris turned, flashing a genuine smile that made Haru's stomach do a weird flip. "Konbanwa, Mr Natsuki! You're home. Ichigo and I just whipped up some spaghetti. Kid's a natural chef—well, mostly at spilling sauce."
Ichigo, perched on a stool with his cute t-shirt and shorts smeared in red, waved a sauce-covered spoon. "Papa! Chris let me stir! It's yummy!"
Haru's serious expression softened into that rare smile. "Arigatou, Chris. Sorry I'm late—work's a beast." He ruffled Ichigo's hair, protective instinct kicking in as he scooped the boy up for a quick hug. The kid smelled like tomatoes and innocence, holding his stuffed bear tight.
"No worries, Haru-san," Chris said, his posture open and lively, like he owned the kitchen. "I got this. College classes are flexible, and Ichigo's a blast. We built a fort earlier—total epic fail, but fun."
Haru nodded, trying not to notice how Chris's eyes lingered a second too long, a subtle blush creeping up his cheeks. The guy was playful, innocent in a caring way, but there was something... electric. Haru shook it off. He was straight, right? Ex-wife and all. This was just exhaustion talking.
They ate together—Haru insisted Chris join, since the food was his doing, his cooking. Ichigo chattered non-stop about his day, pouting when Haru said no more sauce fights. Chris laughed, his genuine smile cutting through Haru's worries like a knife through butter. "You're a tough dad, Haru-san. But fair. Ichigo's so lucky."
Haru felt a warmth in his chest, not just from the food. "Call me Haru. And thanks. It's... not easy, right?"
As bedtime rolled around, Haru tucked Ichigo in, the boy clutching his toy and drifting off with a contented sigh. Chris hung back, tidying up. "I'll head out now. See you tomorrow?"
"Yeah. Thanks again." Haru walked him to the door, their hands brushing accidentally as Chris grabbed his jacket. A spark—literal static? Or something else? Haru's dark eyes met Chris's hazel ones, and for a split second, the air thickened. Chris blushed slightly, his playful expression turning shy. "Night, Haru."
"Night."
Haru locked the door, leaning against it. What the hell was that? He shook his head, heading to the shower. Under the hot water, his mind wandered. Chris's smile, his energy... nah, just grateful for the help. But as he dried off, slipping into bed, sleep didn't come easy. Dreams crept in—fuzzy at first, then sharper.
In the dream, Chris was back in the kitchen, but no Ichigo. Just them. Chris turned, apron loose, shirt unbuttoned just enough to show smooth skin. "Haru-san," he whispered, stepping close, his hand reaching out to trace Haru's jaw. Haru froze, heart racing, but didn't pull away. Chris's fingers were warm, gentle, sliding down to Haru's collar, popping a button. The air hummed with tension, Chris's breath hot against Haru's neck.
"You look so tired," Chris murmured, his light green eyes locking on Haru's dark brown ones. "Let me help... unwind you." His hand slipped lower, over Haru's chest, feeling the slight athletic build beneath the shirt. Haru gasped, a mix of shock and heat flooding him. He grabbed Chris's wrist, but instead of stopping, he pulled him closer. Their bodies pressed together—Chris slim and firm against Haru's taller frame.
Chris's lips brushed Haru's ear. "I've wanted this since I saw you." He nipped lightly, sending shivers down Haru's spine. Haru's resolve cracked; he tilted Chris's chin up, crashing their lips together. It was rough at first, hungry, tongues tangling in a dance that tasted like forbidden fruit. Chris moaned softly, hands roaming under Haru's shirt, nails grazing skin, igniting sparks everywhere.
They stumbled back against the counter, pots clattering forgotten. Haru lifted Chris effortlessly onto the edge, stepping between his legs. Chris wrapped them around Haru's waist, pulling him in tight. Fabric tore slightly as Haru yanked Chris's shirt open, exposing toned chest, nipples hardening in the cool air. Haru leaned down, mouth exploring—kissing, sucking, biting gently. Chris arched, gasping, "Haru... more..."
Haru's hands fumbled with belts, pants sliding down. Skin on skin now, hot and slick. Chris's hand wrapped around Haru, stroking slowly at first, then faster, thumb circling the tip. Haru groaned, thrusting into the grip, his own fingers dipping lower, teasing Chris's entrance. "You feel so good...huh," Haru whispered, voice husky. He pushed in a finger, then two, scissoring gently as Chris whimpered, body clenching around him.
The rhythm built—Haru entering Chris fully, slow thrusts turning frantic. Sweat beaded on their skin, breaths mingling in moans. Chris's nails dug into Haru's back, leaving marks that stung sweetly. "Harder... please," Chris begged, and Haru obliged, pounding deeper, hitting that spot that made Chris cry out. The kitchen echoed with their sounds—slaps of skin, wet kisses, gasps of pleasure. Climax hit like a wave, Chris spilling first, Haru following with a shudder, collapsing together in a heap of limbs and afterglow.
Haru jolted awake, sheets tangled, body aching with arousal. "What the fuck?!" he whispered, glancing at the clock—3 AM. His heart pounded, face flushed. It was just a dream. But damn, it felt real. He rolled over, trying to ignore the tent in his boxers. Chris was his son's caretaker, for crying out loud. Professional boundaries and all that jazz.
Morning came too soon. Haru dragged himself out of bed, dark circles deeper, but he plastered on his serious face. Ichigo was up, demanding breakfast with a pout. "Papa, where's Chris? He makes funny pancakes!"
"He'll be here soon, buddy." Haru smiled softly, holding Ichigo's hand as they set the table. Protective as ever, he hated the idea of disappointing his son.
The doorbell rang. Chris, fresh and cheerful, stepped in with a bag of groceries. "Ohayoo! Thought we'd make omelets today." His eyes met Haru's, a subtle glance that hinted at affection, or was Haru imagining it?
As they worked side by side—Chris chopping veggies, Haru flipping eggs—the air crackled again. Chris's arm brushed Haru's, and this time, Haru didn't pull away fast. "You okay? Look like you didn't sleep well," Chris said, concern in his lively eyes.
"Yeah, just... a dreams." Haru muttered, focusing on the pan.
Chris smirked playfully. "Good ones, I hope."
Haru choked on his coffee, spilling a bit. "Uh, something like that."
The day unfolded with Ichigo's chaos—toys everywhere, laughter filling the apartment. Chris held Ichigo often, swinging him around, his innocent caring side shining. Haru watched, a vulnerability creeping in. Maybe hiring Chris wasn't just about help. Maybe it was the start of something messy, complicated... and hot.
By evening, as Chris left, Haru felt that pull again. "See you tomorrow," Chris said, blushing faintly.
"Yeah...tomorrow." Haru closed the door, heart opening just a crack. Little did he know, this was only the beginning.