She blinks in the sudden light and turns slowly, taking it all in with a complicated knot of emotions. She's too tired to try untangling them right now, but the prevalent force hitting her is a confusing mix of happiness and sorrow. She's nearly light-headed with joy at being here, a place she's been in for fewer than thirty seconds but which already feels more like where she belongs than her ostentatious penthouse ever did, but...

"Haven't gotten around to decorating much?" she asks, turning to smile at him.

Which is when her gaze falls on the chair, and the two blankets draped over it, and the small piece of cracked glass art hung so carefully beside them, and the words die in her throat. She walks over like a woman in a dream to run her fingers over the soft wool while a cacophony of memories play in her mind: Leipzig. The day she came to Wakanda. All the times they sat on or wrapped in these blankets; all the nights they slept beneath them or pillowed on them.

Her touch is light, like she's afraid the wool will disintegrate beneath her fingers, but the blankets are as sturdy and soft as ever, the colors as true, and she turns to him with her eyes full of all the things aching in her chest. "Baby," she says, sore and soft.