DISPATCH x reader Oneshots!

🍋 PART 2: Robert x Jealous!Fem!Reader

Professional. Always professional. But the air around them crackles with that golden-age optimism she radiates, and you feel it like static.

By lunch, your coffee is cold and your patience is thinner than printer paper. Everyone's typing too loud, existing too near, breathing like it's a competitive sport.

By 5 PM, you're a live wire, jittering in your chair, waiting for the universe to give you permission to be done with humanity.

You log out early, blaming a "headache" with all the subtlety of a bad soap opera exit. Robert looks up, eyebrows pinched, a silent wait with his eyes. Too late. You've already grabbed your bag and marched out, refusing to meet the moment with maturity.

The walk home buzzes with neon lights and petty rage. She's his boss. She's professional. You're being ridiculous. You chant it, but it tastes rancid, like someone microwaved jealousy and handed it to you in a paper cup.

You reach your apartment. The key scratches the lock like it's judging you for storming off instead of communicating like a well-adjusted adult. The place is quiet. Dark. Boring.

Shoes off. Bag dropped. You collapse onto the couch face-first, muffling your dramatic sigh into fabric like you've just returned from battle instead of, you know... work.

You let yourself sulk. Not forever. Just until your pride stops chewing on your ankle.

Which never comes.

Phone buzzes.
finally, after what feels like an eternity of nothing.

Robert : Headache or doghouse?

Headache. Early night. : You

Three dots dance... and dance...

Robert : Open the door.

You don't scramble. You sit up slowly, heart picking up a flirtatious rhythm, and pad to the peephole on socked feet. There he is: sleeves still rolled, paper bag in hand, smelling like salvation even through the door.

You swing it open," How— "

" Hero thing. " He steps in, shuts the door with his heel, sets the bag down on the counter like he's claiming the space. " Also, you're predictable when you're jealous. Chinese? "

" Chinese. " You cross your arms. " I'm not jealous. "

He doesn't answer right away. Instead he unpacks the food slowly,, cartons lined up like soldiers, chopsticks laid out with deliberate care. The silence stretches, comfortable but charged, until the scent of sesame and garlic fills the small kitchen.

Finally he turns, wiping his hands on a napkin briefly. " Eat first. Then we talk. "

You want to argue, but your stomach betrays you with a growl. He smirks, pulls out a stool, and pats his thigh. " Come here. "

You hesitate,, petty pride versus the magnetic pull of him. Pride loses. You settle sideways on his lap, one of his arms looping loosely around your waist while he opens a carton of kung pao with the other. He spears a piece of chicken, blows on it, holds it to your lips.