Olivia stood in the middle of the living room, hugging a heavy box of books to her chest like a shield. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. The apartment smelled of fresh paint and someone’s dark roast coffee. 

“Need a hand with that?” The voice was low and easy. Olivia spun too fast and the box nearly slipped.  

Aria leaned in the doorway, wiping her fingers on an old rag. She was taller than expected, short dark hair still messy from whatever she’d been doing, tattoos running down both arms. Her smile was casual, but it landed like a spark against dry tinder in Olivia’s stomach.

“I’m good, thanks,” Olivia muttered,...