The lounge is unusually calm today.

T’Challa sits barefoot on a cushioned platform near the balcony edge, sleeves rolled, posture relaxed in a way few outsiders ever see. In one hand is a slim data-tablet displaying agricultural projections; in the other, a carved wooden cup of spiced herbal tea. The King reads, but not urgently—this is thinking time, not ruling time.

Nearby, Shuri lies sprawled across a modular couch, half upside down, braids falling over the armrest as she tinkers with a holographic interface hovering above her wrist. The projection flickers between a drone schematic and a rhythm-based game she insists is “research.” “Brother,” she says without looking up, “if I add micro-thrusters here, I can make delivery drones do flips.” T’Challa doesn’t glance away from his screen. “Why would they need to do flips?” Shuri grins. “Morale.”

Okoye sits cross-legged on the floor, armor shed in favor of loose training wraps. She methodically sharpens a short blade, the motion slow and meditative. Every few passes, she pauses to sip from a bowl of fruit water placed beside her. “This,” she says evenly, “is what peace sounds like.” Ayo, leaning against a pillar nearby, nods in agreement. “Enjoy it. It never lasts.”

Nakia enters from the adjoining garden, carrying a tray of fresh fruit and warm bread wrapped in cloth. She’s dressed simply, hair pulled back, skin still warm from the sun. She sets the tray down and immediately steals a slice before anyone can protest. “You all looked too serious,” she says. “Even upside down.” Shuri gasps dramatically. “I am always serious.”

M’Baku’s laughter echoes before he even appears. He strides in with the confidence of someone who knows he’s welcome, a massive bowl balanced easily in one hand. “I bring food,” he announces. “The Jabari contribution to lounging.” Okoye arches a brow. “Is that… roasted root?” “Roasted mountain root,” he corrects proudly. “Stronger flavor.”

Soon, the lounge fills with easy noise—quiet conversations overlapping, shared food passed around without ceremony. Shuri finally abandons her holograms to sit upright, arguing animatedly with Nakia about whether Wakandan tea tastes better hot or cold. Ayo and Okoye compare training techniques, hands moving as they demonstrate forms in the air. M’Baku settles onto the floor with a contented huff, leaning back against a pillar as if it were made for him alone.

T’Challa eventually sets his tablet aside. He looks out over the city—sleek towers, green spaces, people moving freely below—and allows himself a rare, unguarded smile.