The boxes arrived on a Saturday morning, stacked haphazardly in the small living room of Ronan's apartment, most of them labeled in Ivy's careful handwriting, a few marked simply "kitchen stuff" or "books, heavy" in a rush she barely remembered making. A moving truck, smaller than she'd expected to need, sat parked outside, and two friendly movers had already carried up the last of it before disappearing back downstairs with cheerful waves, leaving the two of them alone amid the quiet chaos of a life being carefully rearranged.
"You really don't own much furniture," Ronan observed, glancing around at the modest collection of boxes that represented her entire life packed up and ready to merge with his.
"Not everyone grows up with family heirlooms and a decorator on speed dial," Ivy teased
