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“Just thinking about how happy I am and how much happier I will be when this is done. There is sooooo much stuff here.”

I stood in the middle of the living room, surrounded by boxes. Half-labeled, half-unpacked, half-unnecessary. And I leaned back, exhaling, into the warmth of my mate’s arms. His chest against my back, his chin resting on my shoulder.

“It’s not that much,” he lied or underestimated. One of the two.

I let out a laugh. “Maybe not in square footage, but I’ve got enough books here to open a small-town library.”

And it was true. Box after box after box—novels, art books, old field guides, paperbacks so worn they barely held together, books from my childhood. Every one of them had meaning. Every one of them had followed me through a different chapter of my life.

But still. There werea lot.

We’d already sorted most of the big stuff—decided whose dishes were staying (his mostly), which small appliances were redundant (goodbye, extra stand mixer), and which furniture worked best in the shared space. The truck for donations had already come and gone, leaving behind only the things that truly mattered. Or at least hadn’t been completely discarded yet.

And the books. So many books. I’d accumulated them over a lifetime, and the size of the collection had grown slowly over time. But had it grown.

“I only brought the box truck,” he said. “Because I thought, maybe we won’t need it all.”

I tilted my head, brow raised.

“But now?” He sighed.

“Yeah. We’re gonna need it. Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” I said. “Should’ve trusted me.”

Turns out, love makes you want tobring it all. Every part of you. Every worn book, every memory-stuffed mug, every soft blanket that’s ever made you feel safe. You want your person to know it all. Tolivein it with you. Gods, I was turning into such a sap.

It took two trips, but we finally had everything at my new home. Then came the fun part. Or the not fun but necessary part, to be more exact.

I looked around the room again, the floor a mix of clutter, piles, and broken-down boxes.

And yet it already felt like home.

“I’m organizing,” I said, more for my own benefit than his. “I have a plan.” Not really. I was attempting to manifest. “We just need to?—”

“Breathe.” He took my hand and held it tightly.

And I did.

“We don’t need to do this all tonight,” he reassured me.

“I know, but I…”

“No buts. The important thing is that you are here… with me… and this is now our home.”

We stayed there like that for another minute. Maybe two. Long enough for the noise in my head to quiet down, long enough forthe dust in the sunlight to settle. When he finally let go, it was only so he could pull me gently toward the couch, nudging aside a box labeledKITCHEN—MAYBE??with his foot.

“Sit,” he said. “You look like you’re about to pass out in a pile of hardcover biographies.” He seemed to have a connection to my extensive collection of biographies. I guessed they reminded him of one of the elders he spent a lot of time with growing up.

“I might,” I admitted, flopping down. “If I disappear under a stack of novels, tell my story with better pacing.”

He snorted. “Absolutely not. I’ll tell it exactly as chaotic and wordy as it really was.”

I stretched my legs out, the hem of my jeans catching on one of the cardboard corners. “Okay, maybe we take a break. Five minutes.”

He was already disappearing into the kitchen. “I’ll make tea.”

It was so stupidlydomestic, I could’ve cried.

And I might’ve, just a little.