Beautiful Sin - Chapter 1
Spicy BL/MM/GAY Stepbrother Reverse Harem Romance
Rule #1 of living with four stepbrothers: Don’t fall in love with any of them. Too late!
Living with four gorgeous stepbrothers sounds like a dream, right? More like my personal nightmare—especially when one glimpse of Aiden’s face sends my heart racing and my mind straight to the gutter.
Try keeping your cool when the object of your affection wakes you every morning with that killer smile, fusses over you like a mother hen, and walks around looking like sin personified. I know it’s wrong to crave his touch, his attention, his love. He’s made it crystal clear he views me as nothing more than a little brother who needs protecting. But my traitorous heart refuses to listen to reason.
My brilliant solution is to move out before I combust from unrequited love. Simple, right? If only my heart would get with the program. And if only Aiden was my only problem...
Because when it comes to forbidden desire, one stepbrother is dangerous enough. Three? That’s impossible to resist. Especially when our connection feels less like chance and more like fate—a pull that’s existed long before we became family.
Beautiful Sin is a steamy MM stepbrother romance with mystical undertones, featuring a snarky protagonist caught between three irresistible stepbrothers. With enough sexual tension to power a small city and more pining than should fit in a walk-in closet, this story proves that sometimes the most dangerous sins are the most beautiful. Each book in the series ends with a happy-for-now ending as Haru’s journey unfolds across multiple books.
Content Warning: Contains explicit MM content. This series features one protagonist with multiple male love interests, with the protagonist finding love with his stepbrothers one book at a time. Recommended for readers 18+.
Note to Readers: Beautiful Sin is part of the reimagined and expanded Brothers Series (previously published as Haru to Aiden, Aiden to Haru, Noah to Haru, and Mason to Haru). While following the same core storyline, this new edition reads almost like a completely different series with:
Significantly longer books with extended chapters
Fresh writing and perspective
Additional steamy scenes and witty banter
Enhanced character development and deeper storylines
Each book ends with a happy-for-now ending as the series progresses
Prologue
The boy knelt before the ancient scroll, small fingers hovering just above its surface, not quite touching. He couldn’t have been more than five years old, yet there was something timeless in his dark eyes as they traced the faded images—four magnificent creatures encircling a figure in flowing robes.
“What are they, Okaa-san (Mom)?” he asked, his voice soft as cherry blossom petals falling on still water.
His mother knelt beside him, her own beauty a mature reflection of his delicate features. In the dim light of the secluded shrine room, their pale skin seemed to glow with an inner luminescence, black hair cascading like liquid silk down their backs. The boy wore traditional white and red garments that were far too formal for a child his age, yet they suited him in a way that seemed both unnatural and perfectly right.
“They are the guardians,” she answered, her finger pointing to each creature in turn. “The golden dragon, fierce and protective. The silver wolf, loyal and strong. The white snake, wise and patient. And the black cat, playful and true.”
The boy’s eyes widened with wonder. “And who is this?” He pointed to the central figure—a person with flowing black hair dressed in ceremonial robes, surrounded by the four creatures.
His mother’s expression softened, tinged with something that might have been sorrow. “That is the Shrine Maiden. The one chosen to connect our family to the guardians.”
“Like in the stories you tell me?” The boy leaned closer to the painting, fascination evident in every line of his small body.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Just like in the stories.”
From the corner of the room came a derisive snort. An older boy, perhaps twelve, sat cross-legged with an ancient text spread across his lap, its pages yellowed with age.
“Don’t fill his head with more nonsense,” the older boy said, though his tone lacked true annoyance. “He’s insufferable enough already.”
“Respect the traditions, my son,” their mother chided gently. “They are our heritage.”
“Traditions that keep us prisoners,” the older boy muttered, turning a brittle page with careful fingers. “Traditions that keep him locked away from the world.”
The younger boy seemed not to hear, entranced by the painting. “When will I meet them?” he asked, reaching out to touch the golden dragon, his small finger finally making contact with the ancient silk. “My guardians.”
A strange wind stirred through the room, though all the doors and windows were sealed against the mountain cold. The candles flickered, casting dancing shadows across the walls.
“Soon,” his mother said, a curious mix of fear and hope in her voice. “Fate has ways of bringing together those who belong to each other.”
“And then you’ll be even more insufferable,” the older boy added, but his eyes held a protective fierceness as he watched his little brother. “Clinging to them like a burr, no doubt.”
“Will they like me?” the younger boy asked, uncertainty creeping into his voice for the first time.
His mother gathered him into her arms, the ceremonial robes crinkling between them. “They will love you,” she whispered into his hair. “They will love you so much it will terrify them. It will consume them. It will become their everything.”
The older boy closed his book with a snap. “And that’s exactly the problem.”
“It is our way,” their mother said firmly. “It has always been our way.”
“Our way is crumbling,” the older boy retorted, gesturing around the small, shabby shrine room. “Look at us. Once we ruled empires, and now we’re hidden away in the mountains, guarding him like some precious jewel while the family grows poorer each year.”
“The cycle must continue,” their mother insisted. “The guardians—”
“The guardians are myths,” the older boy interrupted. “Stories to keep him obedient. To keep us all obedient.”
The younger boy looked between them, confusion clouding his perfect features. “But I can feel them,” he said softly, pressing a small hand to his chest. “Here. They’re waiting for me.”
Silence fell, heavy with meaning. The older boy’s expression softened as he looked at his brother.
“I know you do,” he finally said, his voice gentler. “And maybe that’s the most dangerous part of all.”
Outside, snow began to fall, blanketing the isolated mountain compound in pristine white. The boy turned back to the painting, his dark eyes reflecting the golden dragon as if seeing beyond the faded silk to something ancient and powerful. Something waiting.
“They’re coming,” he whispered, a smile spreading across his face. “I can feel it.”
His mother and brother exchanged a look over his head—concern meeting resignation.
Neither disputed his words.
They couldn’t.
For in this family, the boy’s feelings had always been prophecy.
Chapter 1
Haru
The first time I met Aiden, I was a nine-year-old tyke fresh off the plane from Japan, complete with a killer cold and jet lag that would’ve knocked out a sumo wrestler. There we were—Mom, my half-brother Reo, and yours truly—landing in New York in the middle of winter, our breath forming little clouds in the frigid air as we huddled together like penguins in a snowstorm.
Then he appeared.
Twenty-year-old Aiden Davis, looking like he’d stepped straight out of a glossy magazine with his golden hair catching the airport fluorescents like some kind of halo. He took my hands in his much larger ones—warm despite the biting cold—and hit me with the most heart-stopping smile I’d ever seen. My nine-year-old brain short-circuited, and something in my chest did this weird flutter thing that I’d never felt before, and honestly, never quite went away.
“Hello, Haru,” he’d said, all warmth and sunshine while snow swirled outside. “My name is Aiden. I’ve heard so much about you from Dad, and I’m glad to finally meet you. We’re going to be brothers soon. Isn’t that great? I’m going to take good care of you.”
For a kid who’d grown up in the Japanese countryside where seeing a blonde person was about as common as finding a unicorn, Aiden was like staring directly into the sun—beautiful, blinding, and impossible to look away from. Those hazel-green eyes that seemed to shift colors depending on the light? That golden hair that fell just so across his forehead? Complete culture shock. I spent years following him around like a lost puppy, memorizing everything about him—the way he’d ruffle my hair with those strong fingers, how his eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed, even the exact tone of his voice when he called my name across a crowded room. God, I was such a lovesick kid.
I was caught. Hook, line, and sinker. Brothers, he’d said. We were going to be brothers. Back then, everything seemed so simple: Mom, new dad Michael Davis, new brothers Aiden, Noah, Mason, and Isaac, plus Reo and me. One big happy family, right?
If only.
That fairy tale lasted five beautiful years before everything changed. Mom and Stepdad’s accident left a hole in our lives that we’re still trying to fill. The six of us brothers, we held onto each other like anchors in a storm—and somehow, we made it through. But for me? Life had another twist in store.
Three years ago, something shifted, and that gorgeous face that used to fill me with childish wonder now belongs in the category of “Things That Should Come With a Warning Label.” What’s worse is that those childhood butterflies never really went away—they mutated into hormone-fueled dragons with X-rated thoughts. Every smile, every casual touch, every time he walks by... God, it’s like my body’s staging a full-blown rebellion against the “brothers” label while my brain’s losing the civil war. Usually, I want to either jump his bones or jump off a cliff—sometimes both.
“Haru? Wake up! It’s already half past seven.”
Speaking of that face—there it was, attached to that deep voice that had no business being so... everything.
If I were to catalog every possible way to be rudely awakened, Aiden Davis insisting I leave my cozy cocoon of blankets at half past seven would be near the top. Though if I’m being honest, I’d rather stay right here with him hovering over my bed—a thought I immediately tried to strangle in its cradle. The morning light filtering through my pathetic excuse for curtains caught in his hair, turning it into spun gold, and I had to physically restrain myself from reaching out to touch it.
I blinked, and my bleary eyes landed on his infuriatingly handsome face—one that could charm birds from trees and has left a long trail of swooning women in its wake. Oh, and apparently, one extremely conflicted younger stepbrother.
Having him this close was doing dangerous things to my sanity—and my libido. Both of which needed to shut up immediately because this was Aiden. My stepbrother. The guy who’d taught me how to ride a bike and helped me with my English homework. Not someone I should want to keep staring at like he was the eighth wonder of the world. Not someone whose lips I should be noticing—full and perfectly shaped, curving into that smile that made my stomach perform Olympic-level gymnastics.
My heart stuttered like a teen girl witnessing a boy band, which only annoyed me further. Really, heart? Now? It was too early for this nonsense. The worst part was how the mattress dipped under his weight when he sat on the edge of my bed, bringing him even closer, making the air between us feel charged with something I desperately tried to ignore.
I grumbled and rolled away from him, burying my face in my pillow to hide the blush I could feel creeping up my neck. “Did I not memo you on the whole ‘no entry’ policy, Aiden? Or do I need to install a lock the size of Fort Knox on my door? Privacy. It’s a life concept, ever heard of it?”
But he just laughed, the sound rumbling like a well-tuned engine. I felt the vibrations of it through the mattress, a sensation that sent an unwelcome shiver down my spine. “Sorry, but some habits are stickier than day-old soda. I’m your morning alarm, remember?” His laugh suggested he found my disheveled state adorable. Me, Haru, the supposedly mature college student, “adorable”? Spare me.
“You better get up, or you’ll be late for that job of yours,” he pointed out, forever the responsible one. His hand landed on my shoulder, warm and heavy through my thin sleep shirt, and I had to suppress a pathetic whimper. His thumb absently traced small circles against my cotton-covered skin, a gesture he probably didn’t even realize he was making, but one that sent electricity shooting through my veins.
“Yeah, I’ll rise and shine the second your face isn’t the first thing I see in the morning,” I shot back, trying to ignore how his touch burned through the fabric. I prided myself on my cutting wit, especially before the caffeine hit my system. If only my voice hadn’t cracked embarrassingly on “morning.”
He still took it as a joke. Always the cheerful one, brushing off my snark like it was just a fluff on his shoulder. His fingers moved from my shoulder to my hair, threading through the dark strands in a way that made me want to arch into his touch like a cat.
“You used to love seeing my face first thing in the morning,” he mused, leaning over me while I pretended I was a burrito, though the blanket did nothing to shield me from his presence. “Remember how you’d sprawl on top of me until I woke up, just so you could stare at my face and be the first to say good morning? What happened?” he questioned, the picture of innocence, completely oblivious to how his words sent my mind spinning into dangerous territory.
Oh, I don’t know, maybe it had something to do with the minor detail of me spectacularly falling for you. That might just do it. Or maybe it’s because now when I think about sprawling on top of you, it involves a lot less clothing and a lot more moaning.
Muttering into my fortress of bed sheets, I gripped the fabric like it was my lifeline, knuckles turning white with the effort of not reaching for him instead. “People change.”
“What was that, Haru? Did I hear you mumble?” he prodded, his voice taking on that teasing tone that somehow managed to be both irritating and endearing. His weight shifted on the bed, bringing him closer, the heat of his body radiating through my blanket cocoon.
I threw back the covers like they’d offended me and sat up, staring him down, immediately regretting it when I realized how close this brought our faces. “I said, people change, Aiden.” From this distance, I could count his eyelashes, see the flecks of gold in his hazel-green eyes, notice the slight stubble on his jaw. My traitorous gaze dropped to his lips for a fraction of a second before I yanked it back up.
He smiled, the jerk, like he could read every inappropriate thought running through my head. “There you are. Finally awake.” He had the audacity to ruffle my hair like I was a particularly cute puppy, rather than a grown man with a functioning libido. His fingers lingered, brushing against the sensitive skin at the nape of my neck, sending shivers cascading down my spine. “Morning, Haru. Did dreamland treat you well?”
My cheek flushed hotter than July in Death Valley. Sure, let’s share that I fantasized about you last night, and by fantasized, I mean imagining your hands all over me, pushing me against walls, those perfect lips trailing down my neck, and—God—the things I wanted you to do to me on every flat surface in this house. The memory of last night’s dream—vivid and explicit—flashed through my mind, and I had to shift subtly to hide the evidence of just how well dreamland had treated me.
I pushed his hand away, trying not to betray the fact that I had been dreaming of doing unspeakably naughty things to him. Things that would make our brotherly morning routine really, really awkward if he knew half of what went through my head when he looked at me like that. My fingers brushed against his wrist in the process, and the brief contact with his skin sent a jolt through me that was embarrassingly intense.
“It’s okay. Sleep is sleep,” I brushed it off, my voice as dry as my wit, though my racing pulse told a different story. I could still feel the phantom sensation of his touch on my skin, like an imprint that refused to fade.
“You seem moody today,” he observed, cocking that damn head to the side, a gesture that shouldn’t be attractive but somehow was. A strand of golden hair fell across his forehead, and I had to physically restrain myself from reaching out to brush it back.
Using more force than I’d like to admit, considering the difference in our sizes, I nudged him off my bed. His constant parade of girlfriends should have clued him in on the appeal of his six-foot-three tall, athletic build and the smile that could launch a thousand ships. But me? I barely scraped by a five-foot-six. No wonder I was dubbed cute—apparently the universal descriptor for adults the size of hobbits. The contrast between us was never more apparent than when he stood to his full height, towering over me like some golden god.
In the Davis-Ono household, we were all assigned our roles like some twisted genetic beauty pageant. Aiden was the gorgeous one—walking proof that God played favorites, with his perfect face and body that belonged on billboards, not making breakfast in our cramped kitchen. Noah was broodingly handsome—he’d perfected that moody romance novel hero stare down to an art form, all sharp cheekbones and intense eyes that could cut glass. Reo was the hot Asian one, a title he wore like a crown while the rest of us rolled our eyes, though no one could deny he had the smoldering looks to back it up. Mason was stunning, which felt like someone had flipped through a thesaurus and picked the first fancy word they found, but with his honey-blonde hair and model-worthy features, it wasn’t far off. Isaac was the pretty one, which sounded like what you say when you’ve run out of compliments but still need to be nice, though his boyish charm had broken plenty of hearts.
And me? I was perpetually cute—words that made me want to gag every time they used them. Being barely five-foot-six apparently relegated you to the realm of puppies and plushies, no matter how desperately you wanted to be taken seriously. At this point, I was pretty sure my growth spurt had gotten lost in the mail along with my dignity. Standing next to Aiden just emphasized every inch of difference between us, every reason why my feelings were hopeless.
As Aiden stood up, I seized the opportunity, trying to ignore how the morning light streaming through my window caught on his profile, highlighting the strong line of his jaw. “I’m getting ready, so if you’d be so kind as to vanish?” My room suddenly felt impossibly small with him in it, like all the oxygen had been replaced with his presence.
“I got it, I got it,” he conceded, but not before throwing one last grin over his shoulder that made my heart do that stupid flutter thing again. “You want a ride to work?”
I shook my head vigorously, perhaps too quickly. “No. I’ve got a bike and I’m not five, despite appearances. I can take care of myself, funnily enough.” I wasn’t subtle in my frustration, though it was directed more at my own weakness than at his offer. Being trapped in a car with him, breathing in his scent, our shoulders occasionally brushing—no thank you. I’d rather brave the summer heat on my bike than subject myself to that particular brand of torture.
Aiden, bless his ever-pampering soul, chuckled, the sound wrapping around me like a warm blanket. “Old habits die hard, don’t they?” The way he ruffled my hair one last time before heading to the door made me want to purr like a cat and die of shame simultaneously. His fingers lingered just a moment too long, trailing down to the nape of my neck before he finally pulled away, leaving my skin tingling in their wake.
Tell me something I didn’t know. Like how to not melt into a puddle every time your irritatingly perfect older stepbrother showed even an ounce of concern. Or maybe how to actually function like a proper adult instead of this disaster-in-progress masquerading as a human being. Or perhaps how to stop noticing the way his t-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders as he turned to leave, or how his sweatpants hung low on his hips in a way that should be illegal before breakfast.
At nineteen, I’d somehow achieved the impossible trifecta: virgin, social hermit, and living proof that popularity could be your worst enemy. Sure, girls flocked to me like I was giving away free concert tickets, and guys kept finding excuses to “help me with homework,” but my social skills remained firmly at “please don’t talk to me” level. Parties? My entire strategy was enter-avoid-escape, executed with the stealth of a ninja with social anxiety. The last time someone asked me out, I literally hid in the library for three days, camping out between the ancient philosophy texts where no one ever ventured. My relationship status wasn’t just single—it was aggressively, pathologically single.
And then there was the tiny, insignificant detail that made everything else look like a minor inconvenience: I was hopelessly, ridiculously, catastrophically in love with Aiden. Because apparently, my life needed that extra sprinkle of complicated on top. It wasn’t just a crush or an infatuation—it was the kind of all-consuming love that made my chest ache whenever he was near, that had me cataloging his smiles and storing them away like precious treasures, that had me lying awake at night imagining impossible scenarios where he might feel the same way.
I lay there after he left, my heart performing its usual gymnastics routine—probably training for the Olympics of Emotional Turmoil. At this point, the pain in my chest deserved its own zip code and property taxes. Maybe I could rent it out to other hopeless cases. I pressed my hand against my sternum, feeling the rapid beat beneath my palm, wondering if it was possible for a heart to actually wear itself out from wanting someone so much.
Shaking off the funk, I tugged at my sleep shirt—an ancient hand-me-down from Noah that was practically a dress on me—trying to keep at least one shoulder from slipping off completely. Not that it ever worked. The soft, worn cotton kept sliding down no matter how many times I adjusted it, exposing more skin than was probably appropriate for family breakfast. I strode out to face the world—or at least the very cramped, one-bathroom hallway of our apartment, the floorboards creaking under my bare feet.
And there was Noah, fresh from his morning torture session—I mean, run—all six-foot-two of sweaty perfection that made Greek gods look like amateurs. He gave me that patented brooding stare, one perfectly sculpted eyebrow raised in a really, Haru? expression. The fact that he could look like a Men’s Health cover model while literally dripping with post-run sweat was just another cosmic joke at my expense. I mean, who actually looks good in running shorts and a sweat-soaked tank top that clung to every defined muscle? Noah Davis, apparently. The hallway suddenly felt narrower, forcing me to brush past him if I wanted to reach the bathroom.
“Yeah, stayed up late,” I said, omitting the sordid details that kept me tossing and turning. Like how I’d spent half the night trying not to think about Aiden in the room down the hall, probably sleeping shirtless as he always did when the summer heat crept in. I averted my eyes from the droplets of sweat trailing down Noah’s chest, disappearing beneath the fabric of his tank top.
“You’re new to the job; don’t muck it up,” Mr. Responsibility lectured, droplets of sweat from his run still glistening on his skin like morning dew, trailing down his chest like some kind of unfairly attractive cologne commercial. If life had a hall monitor, Noah would be it, probably writing citations for improper life choices while wearing his badge of perpetual perfectionism. His dark eyes tracked my movements with that intensity that always made me feel like I was being dissected.
“I’ll be on time. Post-shower and sans breakfast,” I assured him, probably with enough sass to give a drag queen a run for her money. I tried to squeeze past him in the narrow hallway, but he shifted slightly, blocking my path with his imposing frame.
“No, no, no. Breakfast, then work,” he insisted, like he was speaking to a particularly slow child. I rolled my eyes. Yeah, okay, drill sergeant. His tone when addressing me was always different than with the others—sharper, more demanding, with an edge that bordered on aggressive. It was like he saved a special version of himself just for me, and not in a good way.
I could have stood there arguing with him all morning, but my bladder was sending me an SOS, so I cut it short with a promise to ingest the most important meal of the day. However, Noah, ever the tyrant, wasn’t done with me yet. His hand slid roughly from my hair to grip my chin, forcing me to look up at him—a move that never failed to make me want to bite his fingers off. The contrast between his treatment and Aiden’s gentle touches couldn’t be more stark.
“Have you even washed your face? You look like death warmed over,” he criticized, his thumb rough against my cheek. I couldn’t tell if he was trying to scrub my face clean or leave a permanent mark. His touch wasn’t gentle like Aiden’s—it was commanding, demanding, like he was trying to brand me with his fingerprints.
“Get off me,” I growled, shoving at his chest. Bad move. My palm met solid muscle, slick with sweat, and my brain short-circuited for a dangerous second. The feeling of his skin, hot and damp under my hand, sent an unexpected jolt through me. Noah only tightened his grip, pulling me closer until I could smell his post-run musk. Damn him for making even sweat smell good. The scent was nothing like Aiden’s expensive aftershave—this was raw, primal, masculine in a way that made my stomach tighten for reasons I didn’t want to examine.
“Make me,” he challenged, voice low and gravelly, his breath hot against my face. His other hand came up to brush away my bedhead, probably just to annoy me further, but the gesture felt strangely intimate in the confined space of the hallway. His eyes traced down to where his old shirt had slipped off my shoulder again, lingering a beat too long before snapping back to my face. Something dark flickered in his gaze, there and gone so quickly I might have imagined it. “You’re a mess, little brother.”
The way he said “little brother” always had an edge to it, like he was reminding himself more than me. Our bodies were too close in the narrow hallway, the heat from his workout-warmed skin radiating against mine, making the air between us feel charged and uncomfortable.
“I need to pee, you absolute tyrant,” I snapped, trying to duck under his arm, my cheeks burning from both irritation and something else I refused to name. The last thing I needed was to develop inappropriate feelings for two stepbrothers. One hopeless crush was quite enough, thank you very much.
He finally released me with a smirk that suggested he’d won whatever game we were playing. “Better hurry then. And wash your face while you’re in there—some of us have to look at you all day.” His eyes performed another slow scan of my appearance, from my tousled hair to my bare feet, lingering on the exposed shoulder that my shirt refused to cover properly.
“Some of us have to smell you all day,” I shot back, already backing away, trying to put some distance between us. “Ever heard of post-workout showers?”
“Ever heard of morning routines?” he called after me as I escaped down the hallway, his voice carrying that mixture of amusement and condescension that was uniquely Noah.
I flipped him off without looking back, ignoring how my skin still tingled where he’d touched it. God, why did he always have to be so aggressive about everything? And why did it sometimes make my pulse race in a way that confused and annoyed me? Noah was nothing like Aiden—where Aiden was warmth and gentle teasing, Noah was all sharp edges and challenging stares. Yet something about that intensity occasionally caught me off guard, making me wonder things I shouldn’t.
After escaping his manhandling—and resisting the urge to rub my probably bruised chin—I made a beeline for the bathroom, hoping against hope nobody was conducting a symphony in there. The last thing I needed was to encounter another brother in my current state of dishevelment and emotional confusion.
Luck—or maybe just the absence of constipated brothers—was on my side, and Isaac bounded out like a human ray of sunshine, his perpetual whistle carrying some Top 40 tune. His whole face lit up when he saw me, like I was his favorite person in the world, his smile bright enough to power a small city.
“Morning, grumpy!” he chirped, throwing an arm around my shoulders despite my best impression of a statue. His touch was different from both Aiden’s and Noah’s—casual, brotherly, without the undercurrents that made my pulse race. “Bathroom’s all yours.”
I nodded, managing a small smile that only Isaac could ever coax out of me this early, and locked myself in the tiny tiled sanctuary. The mirror reflected back a face flushed with more than just sleep, eyes a little too bright, hair a disaster zone. I looked exactly like what I was—a mess of inappropriate feelings and confused desires.
Let’s be real, this apartment and all its dysfunctional charm was more a lovable prison than a loving home. Every corner held memories, every room was saturated with the presence of the brothers who had raised me. Especially Aiden, whose touch lingered on my skin like a ghost I couldn’t exorcise, whose smile haunted my dreams, whose very existence made my heart ache with wanting something I couldn’t have.
I’d had enough. By the end of summer, I made a mental promise to myself—I’d be out of here, brothers’ opinions be damned. Maybe with some distance, I could finally get over these feelings. Maybe in a new place, without Aiden’s constant presence, I could learn to breathe again without my chest hurting. Maybe, just maybe, I could find a way to stop loving him.
But as I stepped into the shower, letting the hot water cascade over my skin, I knew it wouldn’t be that easy. You can’t just decide to stop loving someone, especially when they’ve been woven into the fabric of your life for as long as you can remember. Still, I had to try. For my sanity. For my heart.
For now, though, I had a shift to get through, brothers to avoid, and feelings to bury. Just another day in the life of Haru Ono—social disaster, emotional train wreck, and hopeless romantic.