The King: T'Challa.

Chapter 21: Sharing With The World

The gardens stretched quiet under lantern glow, the air carrying the faint hum of crickets and the perfume of night jasmine. Emily walked beside T'Challa, her arm looped through his, their steps unhurried. It was the kind of silence that felt earned, the kind that came after chaos, when words were unnecessary.

"You know," she said finally, her voice low but edged with wry humour, "you have a frustrating habit of throwing yourself off cliffs. Not exactly reassuring for the people who care about you."

T'Challa halted, turning to face her fully, his expression unreadable in the half-light.
"And yet, here I stand," he murmured. "Though I admit... when I fell, the thought that lingered was not of death—but of whether I would see you again."

She blinked at him, caught off guard, though her smirk quickly returned. "You should work on your priorities, T'Challa. Survival first, confessions later."

He gave a small laugh but didn't look away. "Perhaps. But sometimes it takes being pushed to the edge to know what truly matters."

She held his gaze for a beat too long before tugging him toward the wooden bench at the garden's centre. They sat, shoulders brushing, fingers finding each other naturally.

"You've carried too much," he said softly. "My family. My people. Even me."

"Don't make it sound noble," she replied, shaking her head. "It wasn't duty, or sacrifice. It was choice. I protect the people I can't bear to lose."

Silence stretched. It wasn't empty—there was weight to it, as if both of them recognised the line they had been circling for years but never crossed. She opened her mouth to say more, but he leaned forward, and the words dissolved between them as his lips touched hers.

The kiss was soft at first, tentative, almost questioning. She froze in surprise before instinct swept her up and she returned it, eyes closing, her arm curling around his neck as his hand pressed to her waist. What began hesitant deepened into something steadier—long-denied truths spoken without sound, the relief of survival mingling with the sharpness of feeling.

When they finally parted, foreheads resting together, Emily tried for gravity, though the grin was already tugging at her lips.
"You know... you can't just kiss me every time you nearly die."

T'Challa chuckled under his breath, the sound rich with both exhaustion and warmth. "Perhaps not. But tell me—it is not an unreasonable excuse, is it?"

Her laugh was soft, real, breaking the weight of the moment without diminishing it. "It's a terrible excuse. But I'll allow it."

He lingered a second longer, then pressed a brief, unhurried kiss to her again before standing. He held out his hand.
"Come. The family waits. And if we leave them any longer, Shuri will never let us forget it."

She slipped her hand into his, rising with him, and together they walked back toward the palace—lighter for the first time in what felt like years, though both knew the weight of what had just passed between them was only beginning.

***

"When you said California," Shuri drawled, hands on her hips as she peered up at the decaying apartment block, "I assumed Coachella. Or at least Disneyland. Not... this."

The building loomed above them, its brickwork cracked, its windows hollowed like sockets staring out at the street. It carried the weight of history, of blood spilt decades ago when T'Chaka struck down his brother to save Zuri's life.

Emily glanced at T'Challa, his jaw set, his silence heavier than words.

"This," he said at last, his voice low, "is where our father killed our uncle."