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You entered the room, trying to be as soundless a possible: trying not to disturb him. You knew how T'Challa could get - so caught up in his thoughts that the outside world felt less than real to him. There was a kind of solemnity in his silence there.
His suit was expertly tailored and sharp as ever. He always had a put-together quality. You'd always liked that about him.
As if he'd heard your thoughts, as if he'd sensed your presence, he turned.
Just glancing over his shoulder, just watching you. He stared. He said nothing. He saddened.
His eyes seemed to well with tears and you couldn't help but move to him.
His arms were more toned than you could comprehend. How long had it been since he'd held you like this?
He was pressing you so close to him, hugging you so fiercely. Any closer and you would've become one in the same person.
"I'm sorry," He whispered deeply into your shoulder, as if he had any reason to be.
As if he'd done anything wrong.
"Nonsense." You replied quickly, tears threatening to fall.
